As my high school experience draws to a close, I feel inclined to share what Sufjan Stevens has taught me about living.

Sufjan Stevens is a man. The importance of this simple observation cannot be overstated; it is crucial that listeners of his music are able to distinguish between the music he creates and the man himself. The transcendent power of art is what separates the two , thus allowing the listener to interpret his works in a fresh way, regardless of how personal and specific they may be.

Over the course of his 15-year discography, it would appear as though Stevens has never replicated the same musical sentiment twice: each of his projects has a distinctly unique flavor. The delicate sweetness of “Seven Swans” could not contrast more with the grandiose electronic brashness of “Age of Adz,” nor could the intimacy of “Carrie and Lowell” be more different from the carefree adventure  “Illinois.” However, upon closer scrutiny , there are a handful of overarching themes that reveal themselves in Stevens’s lyrics.

On many occasions, Stevens acknowledges a floor, or rather the floor — the lowest emotional, mental and physical state of being.   In “Casimir Pulaski Day,” a possibly fictional account of a boy losing his high school sweetheart to cancer, Stevens explains that, “On the floor, at the Great Divide / With my shirt tucked in, and my shoes untied / I am crying in the bathroom.” This ultimate weakness forces the listener to sympathize with Stevens, who embodies mankind in his songs. The cathartic experience then comes from within: for the floor is us at our worst.

Stevens taught me that even at my worst, I will have the love and affection of others to elevate me once again.

Stevens masterfully  expresses the confusion and uncertainty of faith through the use of juxtaposition. Specters and apparitions mingle with angels and biblical figures. In some instances, Stevens looks to God for guidance and reassurance, and in others he denounces his faith entirely. In the meandering “John My Beloved,” Stevens bluntly admits, “Jesus, I need you / Be near me, come shield me.” Yet in “All Delighted People,” Stevens says of prayer, “It doesn’t matter anyway / The world surrounds us with its hate.”.

Rather than avoid the controversial topic of religion altogether and sacrifice the veracity of his music, Sufjan attacks the subject with an exploration of his own philosophies. He does so in a n on-religious manner, synthesizing biblical allusions with spectral occurrences and even atheistic tendencies in a thorough manner to create a vignette of himself.

Stevens taught me to be fearless and steadfast in my beliefs while respecting the viewpoints of others and allowing my own philosophies to encompass more than just traditional dogmas.

I cannot justify why Stevens’ “The Predatory Wasp of The Palisades Is Out To Get Us!” fills me with a nostalgic euphoria or why “Impossible Soul” inclines me to dance – music has these intangible qualities. I implore you to discover your own Sufjan Stevens, your own spiritual equivalent.