The thing is, I make music I like. So it's just weird if someone

“The thing is, I make music I like. So it’s just weird if someone says they don’t like it.” Thus spoke Tyler, The Creator, a craftsman of sound who has built his own world from defiance, creativity, and authenticity. His words carry the essence of an ancient truth: that the highest form of art is not born from the desire to please others, but from the courage to be true to oneself. For the artist who creates what he loves has already succeeded, regardless of whether the world applauds or rejects him.

The ancients would have said: “To thine own self be true, and thou shalt not falter before the judgments of men.” Tyler’s statement is rooted in this same principle. To create for the sake of others alone is to become a servant of their fleeting desires; but to create what your own soul loves is to stand in freedom. The strangeness he feels when others reject his music is not arrogance, but the bewilderment of a man who has poured his truth into form. For to dislike his music is, in some way, to dismiss the very essence of his heart.

Consider the story of Vincent van Gogh, who painted with colors that blazed like fire, yet was scorned in his lifetime. He painted not for the approval of critics, but because his soul demanded it. His brush spoke a language of passion and torment that the world was not yet ready to hear. Though others mocked or ignored his work, he remained faithful to his own vision. Today, his paintings are revered across the earth. Like Tyler, he created what he liked, and though the world turned its back in his day, his authenticity endured beyond time.

In the same way, recall Walt Whitman, whose poetry shocked the literary world of his age. Many called his verses crude, chaotic, even indecent. Yet Whitman declared, “I celebrate myself.” His poetry was not meant to bend to convention but to express the boundless spirit of life. Critics dismissed him, yet generations after his death, Leaves of Grass has become a pillar of world literature. His lesson aligns with Tyler’s: what is created from the self, and for the self, will one day find those who understand it.

The meaning of Tyler’s words is therefore this: authenticity is the highest standard of creation. If you create to win approval, you become a prisoner to the applause of others, and when the applause fades, so does your spirit. But if you create what you love, you are forever free. Others may find it strange, ugly, or unworthy, but to you it remains truth, and truth endures. In time, those who resonate with it will come. And even if they do not, the creator has already tasted victory by remaining faithful to himself.

The lesson is powerful: let your work spring first from what you love. Do not twist your art, your labor, or your vision to match the shifting whims of others. When rejection comes—and it surely will—remember Tyler’s bewilderment. Do not let it break you, for their dislike does not erase your authenticity. Instead, let it remind you that creation is first for the soul of the creator. To love your own work is to carry within you a well of joy that no critic can dry.

Practical counsel follows: when you create—whether music, writing, craft, or even the shaping of your daily life—ask not, “Will they like it?” but, “Do I love it?” Build what resonates with your spirit. Share it boldly, for though some may reject it, others will find in it the very voice they have longed to hear. And most of all, refuse to silence yourself. For every true voice, even if strange to many, is a gift to the few who recognize it.

So remember this, O seekers of truth: make what you love, live as you love, and walk unshaken by the judgments of others. For in a world that forever demands conformity, the one who creates for himself is already victorious. As Tyler, The Creator teaches, when your art is born from your own delight, its worth is eternal, whether praised or rejected.