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NOTE: The following intro section is an explanation of a new segment of Still Human: “Words & Music.” If you want to skip to read about my first new song in years, “Second Verse,” scroll down to the break.
Creative arts students at the university where I teach are often required to include “critical reflections” alongside their creative assignments — whether it’s a recorded song, a visual art piece, or a bit of creative nonfiction.
The point of these reflections is that it gives the student a chance to explain their intent — what were they trying to achieve, and how did the choices they made contribute to those goals?
The AI era has made me realize that what makes art matter is the trying. It’s sitting down with a pen, or a paintbrush, or a piano, and beginning with some kind of goal — and then working towards accomplishing that intention.
Maybe the intention is as simple as increasing the amount of beautiful things in the universe by one.
Maybe it’s a desire to express a deeply held feeling or belief, or work through a personal experience.
Or maybe it’s to experience the joy of the process of creation itself, rather than the product.
Creating art involves wanting and trying and feeling as you work. And, yes, it also involves failing — something that’s only possible for living things, as the only ones currently capable of wanting anything at all. Failing means not getting a desired outcome. You have to start with desire to be able to fail.
And so with all that in mind, I thought I would try something new as I start releasing my own music again for the first time in a long time. For each new song I release, I’m going to release an accompanying short essay expanding on the themes of the song and exploring what I was trying to achieve — and how I think I succeeded or failed.
It’s an opportunity to demonstrate a big reason why I feel human art still matters — trying makes us human, and art is the most beautiful form of trying we have.
It’s also a chance to combine two things I love — songwriting and essay writing — in a way that I hope adds up to something worthwhile.
So without further ado, here’s the first edition of Words & Music.
“Second Verse”

If you’ve followed Still Human for a bit, you’ve probably already heard the story of my previous life in the music industry. If you haven’t, here’s the condensed version (deep breath):
Became a professional musician at 13, did that for ten years including some limited success with a record label, then realized everything about the life of a full-time performing artist was incompatible with everything I wanted out of my life. Left the industry, became a writer for a living, didn’t seriously make music again for nearly a decade. Moved to Australia, stumbled into teaching at a university, started a research degree, and got reminded about the parts of being an artist I actually did love — that is, the actual making art. Writing songs and recording them.
And now here we are, with the first new song I’ve written and recorded in years. My “second verse.”
So much has changed in my life since I last seriously approached songwriting. I’m a decade older, first of all. I’m a father now, a husband. I live on a different continent in a different hemisphere. And this art form is no longer my life or my livelihood or my central career path. It’s just one piece of this weird personal and professional journey I’m now on that includes fatherhood, family, nature, teaching, studying, writing, research, and, yes, making music.
That passage of time is a central concept throughout Second Verse, beginning with the sort-of depressing opening lines:
Leaves fall never thinking to call, see if we’d prefer spring It’s just facts, why would prison guards ask what the prisoners think? And we’re all made of the minute we’re in We could float but we’ll sink if we swim Right now is the only right now that there’s ever been
That bleak opening couplet is all about being prisoners to time. Despite how much we may wish otherwise, we’re all — you know, dying. Fun!
The three lines that follow address the flip-side of that idea. On one hand we’re constantly fighting against the passage of time, but we’re also constantly looking forward. We plan and stress and worry about what’s next. I’ve spent my whole life doing exactly that.
But again, we can’t live in the future we imagine, despite our best efforts. The past and the future are real, but they’re out of our reach. The only place we can be is the present moment. Which leads to the chorus:
But the truth doesn’t have to hurt All these rules only have to work Keep your searching, keep your mind Just know that searching’s all you’ll find And that’s good news acting like a curse Because all of life is a second verse
Here’s where Optimistic Taylor can’t help but show up.
Yes, we’re prisoners to time. Yes, we repeatedly arrive at whatever “destination” we imagined in the future only to find out that it’s just another door to more challenges. Yes, we get older and “wiser” and discover that the rules we’ve lived by may not be as universal and perfect as we thought.
But that's a good thing. Because searching is a joyful experience. We float forever in a murky pool of mysteries, and we think that what we want is the dry land of tidy solutions. But a life (or afterlife) without mysteries would be hell. We don’t want rest, we want work worth doing. The ultimate reward for our searching and striving is more searching and striving. You get to a peak and see there’s another, higher peak. And thank heavens for that.
Now for the second verse of “Second Verse.” (if that sounds confusing, imagine having to talk about the song with my producer while recording it).
One day’s just a faraway place where your happiness goes And back then’s got a lot of good friends but they’re mostly just ghosts We find pain in the minute we’re in Could find joy, but we’d rather keep swimming it And right now is the only right now that there’s ever been
More time talk. We look toward some future moment and imagine we’ll be happy then. Meanwhile we look back on the past and think we must have been happier then. Joy, for us goofy humans, is anywhere but the present moment. What do we feel in the present moment? Usually pain, worry, and anxiety.
Now here’s where I worried about my lyrics sounding “preachy.” I’m still not sure. I use the first-person plural “we” here because I like it as a songwriting convention, but it can come off as very philosophical and faux-deep. As if I’m speaking on behalf of everyone, saying: “here’s what we SHOULD do.”
But modern songwriting tends to be very ego-centric and confessional. “I feel X because someone did Y to me.” But I’ve always like songs that try to connect with some shared feeling, songs that address a human failing we’re all trying to work through together.
My intention isn’t to say, “If you were enlightened like me, you could find joy in the present!” I suck at finding joy in the present. It’s one of my greatest weaknesses. I don’t imagine myself dictating these words from a podium to an audience, but rather all of us in a therapy circle repeating it like a mantra:
Right now is the only right now that there’s ever been.
More than anything, that’s what “Second Verse” is to me. It’s a message I wish I had understood ten years ago, that I hope I remember ten years from now, that I try to remember every minute of every day (and usually fail to remember). A message that I hope my children and anyone I teach and anyone I know will remember. Happiness doesn’t come tomorrow, because there is no tomorrow, and there’s no yesterday. The only place we can find anything is here and now. And that will be true of the next here and now. We can work and strive and search and learn, but the destination all that leads us to is more work and striving and searching and learning. So we may as well enjoy it right now, right this minute.
Right now is the only right now that there’s ever been.
I hope you like my song. It’s good to be sharing music with you all again.
-Taylor
Love to hear it!! Beautiful song, beautiful track. Well done!!