J’aime J’aime feels like a candid conversation in front of a mirror. ZAZ keeps asking herself “Qu’est-ce que t’aimes ?” and fires back a joyful inventory of little delights: honest people, silly smiles, neon lights, the freedom to bolt out the door and dive into daydreams. The melody skips along with her wandering thoughts, so you can almost picture her scribbling half-poems, cracking jokes to herself, and wondering if someone on the other side of the planet is thinking the exact same random thing.
Beneath the playfulness, the song spins a tender reflection on solitude. ZAZ celebrates the kind you choose—the quiet space where you chat with your own mind, turn the volume down on the world, and pull loneliness out “like a thorn.” Yet she also admits the flipside: the howling noise of emotions, the raging sea of self-doubt when you lose touch with who you are. By the final chorus, time blurs, past and future tangle, and only the present heartbeat matters. It is an ode to knowing yourself, loving your own company, and learning when to step back into the light with everyone else.