Apparently I Write Songs Now

It's been a stressful, melancholic stretch of my life — and somewhere in the middle of it, writing songs quietly became the thing that brought me the most meaning and joy. There's something therapeutic about pouring an emotion into words, especially when the words are poetic enough that no one (sometimes not even me) can tell exactly which feeling is mine and which is just the song's. The privacy of metaphor is a real gift.

The best part, honestly, is that I actually listen to these. For the past month, the only music playing in my shower, in my car, while working out, and on rides with family and friends has been the eight songs I wrote myself. It creates an instant shared experience.

And these are still just demos — who knows, maybe one day a real artist records one. Maybe I make music videos for them, real or AI-generated. Maybe a dance choreograph something. The possibilities feel endless!

Here is more about the five new songs I created over the past month. (Check out the other three songs I wrote in my other blog post: I Never Thought I Could Write a Song. Then I Wrote Three)

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1.《青蛙的宿命》— The Fate of the Frog

There's a Chinese phrase, 井底之蛙 — literally "a frog at the bottom of a well." It's used to describe someone whose worldview is small, who mistakes the patch of sky above their well for the whole sky, and who has no idea how much more is out there. It's almost always meant as a gentle insult: Don't be that frog. Climb out. See more. 

But writing this song, I started thinking — what if you do climb out? You leap to a bigger well, and then a bigger one, and a bigger one still. Every time you think you've reached the summit, there's another tower above it. Maybe the fate of the frog isn't to be stuck in one well. Maybe it's to keep leaping forever, each time convinced it's finally seeing the whole sky, and each time discovering that the edge of the sky is just more sky.

When we were small, our teachers told us to be number one. So we climbed. We made it to the top of the hill — and looked up to find a higher one waiting for us. We made it to the top of that one — and looked up to find another, taller still.

This song came out of wondering whether we've gotten so used to rushing to the next summit that we've forgotten to notice where we are. The stations we hurry past have fresh air too. The flowers along the way are also in bloom. This isn't a song telling anyone to stop climbing — it's a song saying that on the way to whatever's next, you're allowed to enjoy where you are now. The two things don't contradict each other.

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2. Where's Home?

It's the most ordinary question in the world, and for most of my life I haven't known how to answer it. I was born in one country, grew up in another, crossed an ocean for a third. Every time I land somewhere new, I think maybe this is it. Maybe this is home. And every time I leave, I wonder if I just left it behind.

I wrote this for anyone who's ever felt caught between places — for anyone who's said goodbye at an airport gate and wondered if it ever gets easier. (It doesn't.) But I've learned something along the way: there's no sadness without love, and no running back without the running from.

Fun fact: This song became the background music of our digital wedding invitation!

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3.《习惯一个人》— Used to Alone

This one is about getting used to being on your own again. "Getting used to" turned out to be more complicated than I'd thought — it isn't a single decision but a long string of small moments. The bed pushed up against the wall. There is always leftover food. The apartment quiet enough that you can hear the fridge. Ordering whatever you want for dinner because no one else is asking.

What finally made me realize I'd adjusted wasn't anything dramatic. It was finishing a whole bowl of rice one day all by myself, smiling. And yet — sometimes you still roll over in your sleep and reach for the empty side.

This song is for that in-between place. Almost okay. Not quite all the way there.

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4.《哪一种更痛》— Which Hurts More

This is a song about the fear of losing things. When we have something good — someone we love, friends, our health, a stable life — why is there always a small corner of the heart that's afraid? Afraid they'll leave. Afraid your teeth will fall out. Afraid the phone will stop ringing. Afraid a wave will come and take everything at once.

But if you'd never had any of it, you wouldn't be afraid — and that, I think, is its own deeper hurt. There's an old line in the song: I don't ask for forever, only that I once had it. But the song wants to ask back — are you sure? Have you really thought about it?

Which hurts more — having it and losing it, or reaching out and never quite touching? 

In the end I think life might be a kind of necklace. The good parts and the losses and the regrets all strung together, with a few duller stones between the pearls. And it's those stones, actually, that keep the necklace from being ordinary. I hope we can all be afraid of losing things and still enjoy having them at the same time.

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5.《我过得（比你）好》— I'm Doing (Better Than You)

A girl's version of Jay Chou's《不爱我就拉倒》- If You Don't Love Me So Be It. This is the song for boy I had a crush on back then — the one whose eyes were only ever on the older girl a year above us. To get him to notice me I went to his soccer games and cheered from the sidelines. I pretended I understood basketball plays. I memorized his playlist and listened to it on loop until I fell asleep. He never saw me once. The little kid trailing after him has long since grown up — red lipstick, a small dress, getting on just fine.

So what this song is really saying is simple: I didn't become this version of myself for you. I just happened to grow into the kind of person I like. Pity you can't see it.

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Listen to the full album playlist here!

Subscribe to my Suno and Youtube account for more songs to come!

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If you'd told me a year ago that I'd be sitting in my car listening to my own songs on repeat, sharing them with my family, hearing my own voice (well, an AI's voice carrying my words) come back at me through the speakers — I wouldn't have believed you.

But here we are. I think the lesson, if there has to be one, is that the bar to make something is lower than it's ever been, and the reward for making it is higher than I would have guessed. You don't have to be a musician. You don't even have to be sure you have something to say. You just have to start, and then keep going, and one day you'll look up and there will be eight of them.

Maybe nine, by the time you read the next post.

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