Why I Started Writing Music

I didn’t start writing music because I thought I could be an artist.

I started because I needed somewhere for the truth to go.

For most of my life, words were how I survived. I wrote to make sense of chaos, to stay oriented when reality kept shifting under my feet. I wrote conversations I never got to finish. I wrote explanations no one asked for. I wrote because silence was dangerous—and being misunderstood even more so.

Music came later. Much later.

At first, lyrics were just another place to put sentences that felt too true to live only in my head. But something changed when I realized that music could hold my contradiction: strength and grief, love and rage, clarity and confusion—all at once. Music didn’t demand that I resolve anything. It let me tell the truth without tying it up neatly.

That mattered to me more than sounding polished.

The Influence Behind the Sound

My influences aren’t just musical—they’re emotional.

I’ve always been drawn to artists who leave space in their work — who trust restraint, and allow quiet to carry meaning. Billie Eilish taught me that vulnerability doesn’t have to be loud to be devastating. Lana Del Rey showed me that sadness can be cinematic without becoming self-pitying.

I care deeply about words, and about artists who understand how one syllable can change the emotional gravity of a song. Eminem is, and always will be, the greatest lyricist of our time in my opinion. Jelly Roll brings a kind of grit and honesty that feels lived-in — the kind of truth I recognize immediately.

But beyond artists, my biggest influence has been lived experience.

Long stretches of silence. Conversations that ended without closure. Love that arrived as devotion and slowly turned into something colder. The kind of emotional absence that doesn’t announce itself—but changes everything.

That’s where my writing lives.

Why Silent Bombs Is My Favorite Song I’ve Written

Silent Bombs mirrors my own experience the closest in both lyrics and production.

It’s about what happens when harm isn’t dramatic—when it arrives quietly, repeatedly, and without witnesses. It’s about the damage done by pauses, withheld words, and emotional withdrawal. The kind of pain that may or may not leave bruises, but still changes the nervous system.

The title came from a realization that hit me late one night:

Silence can be weaponized.

And when it is, it explodes silently —it erodes.

Writing Silent Bombs wasn’t cathartic in a loud, triumphant way. It was steady. Focused. Almost surgical. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I was documenting something real, and it flowed out of me . It was written in a bathroom in under 30 minutes. Truth, once recognized, will erupt out of a survivor if uncaged and given the freedom to express itself.

That’s why it matters to me.

Why I’m Sharing This Now

For a long time, I kept my writing private because I thought being understood was too much to ask of strangers.

Now I know better.

Music isn’t about being universally understood. It’s about being accurately understood by the few who recognize themselves in it. If one person hears Silent Bombs and thinks, “That’s it. That’s what it felt like,” then the song has done its job.

I didn’t start writing music to perform.

I started because some truths don’t survive silence.

And I’m done letting them disappear.

Eliara Rae