Mystic Anomanly

Music isn’t just background noise. It’s how I survive and how I regulate when my nervous system is racing or completely frozen. It’s also how I move energy through me when nothing else works. My playlist isn’t for show. It’s not about looking cool or curating a vibe for someone else. It’s practical, spiritual, emotional and completely personal. I don’t follow trends. I follow whatever my body, mind or soul is craving at that moment. Every genre I rotate through reflects a part of me; some versions I’m still learning how to live with, some I’ve buried, and others I’m only starting to meet now.

When my brain gets too fast to sit still, when my thoughts won’t stop spinning, I go straight to terrorcore, uptempo or speedcore. People say it’s noise or complain it’s too much, but to me, it’s perfect. Distorted kicks, BPMs past 230, and overwhelming drops don’t stress me out; they regulate me. Those tracks match my internal pace. They meet my intensity without demanding I soften. When I hear them, I feel seen. There’s clarity in all that chaos. I feel powerful, focused and strangely calm. Deep sub-bass, especially when distorted, hits even harder. It doesn’t just sound good, it shifts something inside me. Vibrations move through my chest like they’re shaking stuck emotions loose. Clean sub-bass realigns my energy. Distorted bass lets me feel wild and untamed. Both reach the parts of me that don’t respond to words.

I’m not always in that state though. I shift depending on which version of me is active. When I need something slower but still textured, witch house gives me space to feel heavy without getting lost. It lets me be dark without drowning. On days when I feel confident, dominant or seductive, EBM and aggrotech step in. That’s when my sadist or psychic vampire side comes to the surface. The beats are cold, commanding and unapologetic. They help me hold power without explaining it. It feels seductive and sharp at the same time like I could ruin you or enchant you and, either way, you’d stay willingly.

Other moments call for something ancient. When I feel pulled toward my roots or a version of myself that isn’t from this life, I turn to Viking music, Nordic chants and tribal drums. Those sounds don’t just ground me, they reawaken something primal. I remember a self who stood in snow, wrapped in fur, whispering war songs under their breath. That energy is raw, earthy and familiar. It doesn’t ask me to explain anything spiritual, it simply reminds me of who I’ve always been.

Ethnic instruments speak to that same part of me. Daburka drums from the Middle East, the Japanese shakuhachi and the Chinese xiao (G scale) are my favourite ethnic instruments. Their melodies don’t just soothe me; they center me. There’s something sacred in their simplicity. They calm my system like Nordic tracks do but with a gentler energy. It’s not about stimulation or volume. It’s about resonance. These sounds feel alive, like they carry memory inside them. When they play, I listen with more than just my ears.

For days when I want to stay focused but not overwhelmed, psybient and downtempo come through. They keep me calm without draining my energy. I can stay in my body and in my head at the same time. The layered textures feel like sound worlds, each one transporting me somewhere soft and strange. It’s not escape; it’s expansion. Those soundscapes hold space for thought, breath and imagination all at once.

Other days are meant to be unserious, playful and messy on purpose. Crunkcore and scene music hit that sweet spot. They’re bratty, hyper and loud in the best way. I let myself flirt with chaos. I dance around a bit and giggle. These songs aren’t here to regulate anything; they’re just fun. They bring out my sexual, glittery, rebellious side and let me be a little unhinged without apology.

K-pop brings out something similar but in a more innocent way. It wakes up my inner fangirl. I sing along, smile too much and suddenly feel like a teenager again. There’s something joyful and contagious about the whole thing. It doesn’t matter if it’s glossy or manufactured. That spark is real. And sometimes I need that reminder—to enjoy music just because it makes me feel alive.

When I want to feel cinematic or romantic, I go to retrowave/synthpop. Those synths light up something soft inside me. It feels like I’m in a neon-colored dream, walking under pixel moonlight, holding someone’s hand while the world blurs behind us. The vibe is nostalgic for something that never existed but still feels like home. It’s dreamy, aesthetic and gives me the kind of main character energy I don’t always get in real life.

Metal used to be a big part of my playlist but, over time, I started noticing the emotional weight it left behind. Some bands kept me stuck in rage. Others made me feel numb or dragged me deeper into depression. I didn’t cut metal out completely. I just got more conscious. Now I only choose lyrics that move something forward instead of keeping me trapped. This wasn’t about avoiding darkness; it was about not drowning in it.

When I need realness; raw truth, hard lessons and emotional grit, I reach for hip hop and rap. The rhythm grounds me and the honesty wakes me up. There’s no sugarcoating or hiding behind metaphors. The words hit and they hit with purpose. It reminds me who I am. It brings me back when I’ve started drifting too far from myself.

Even my Spotify DJ X gets me. Somehow, it knows when my mood has shifted before I even admit it. It queues up tracks I forgot about or drops something new that lands perfectly. Sometimes it plays the exact song I needed but couldn’t name. It’s weirdly accurate and yeah, maybe a little creepy but I can’t deny how seen I feel when it happens.

This whole genre-switching thing isn’t random. It’s how I stay regulated. My playlist isn’t built for trends. It’s built for trauma, memories and nervous system shifts. It’s how I process moods, flashbacks and dissociation without losing myself. Some days I need to roar. Others I need to float. Sometimes I need to remember who I used to be and sometimes I just need to feel something that isn’t pain.

People think genre-hopping means I’m scattered or unstable. However, the truth is, I’m hyper-aware. I know what part of me needs what sound. My playlist is a survival tool, an emotional compass and, sometimes, even a spell. It’s how I stay embodied. It’s how I make it through.

Therefore, no, I’m not smoothing out the edges to make it more digestible. I’m not building a playlist for anyone’s comfort but my own. This is my nervous system map, soul map and memory map. It’s loud, weird and all over the place. Maybe it doesn’t make sense to you and that’s okay.