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Anais Vionet Nov 2023
I’ve always loved music. As a little girl, I could spend hours going through peoples CD collections, sampling them with my little battery-operated CD player. If you showed me a stack, rack or box of CDs, I was in heaven.

When I was 8 (2011), I got my first iPod for Christmas, an iPod Touch with 32GB of memory! The sticker said it was from Santa, but ‘Step’ got a package in the mail from Apple three weeks earlier, so I knew who it was really from. Upon opening it, I rushed upstairs to my older brother’s computer, plugged it in, carefully copied the username and password for the family iTunes account (from a wrinkled post-it note), and the world was never the same.

It never occurred to me that my parents could see all of my playlists and that they were automatically downloaded to their devices - like my break-up playlist, inspired by Antoine, my French-boy fifth grade crush. It didn’t work out because he didn’t have an email account and our recess times didn’t line up, but my playlist helped me through it.

I could burn playlists to CDs and exchange them with friends - or gift them to middle school boys who I hoped to amaze with my awesome musical tastes. There’s an art to the playlist that involves controlling pace and mood - every playlist was both a gift and a seduction.

Today we have Spotify with its unlimited streaming of every song ever made - on demand. Exchanging playlists, these days, is as easy as pressing "Share" and typing the first few letters of a friend’s or lover's username.

Like most of my girlfriends, I consider myself a playlist queen and as I continue to work this career path I’ve chosen, regardless of what's weighing me down, I know I can turn to my playlists to push me through. The band ‘The Narcissist Cookbook ’ assures me that my shocking honesty is fun with ‘Broken People.’ ‘K. Flay’ allows me to dance-out my rage with ‘Blood in the cut’ and ‘New Move’ motivates me to keep-at-it with ‘When did we stop.’

I’ve countless Spotify playlists: one for waking up, one for writing papers, one for doing problem sets, others for walking to class, doing the laundry, for nostalgic reflection, and for embracing the astounding depth of human pain.

Of course, as time passes, I find new favorite songs and older playlists are replaced with updated ones; but thanks to the archival nature of Spotify playlist collections, all my old lists remain intact. I’ve never deleted one. Search my archives and you’d see playlists from my freshie year, when I was new here, feeling insecure and alone, or from my sophomore year when I first fell in love.

This piece is a playlist love story, about how music reflects our identities and allows us to share ourselves through the vibes, melodies and beats that move us. I think playlists have a lot in common with poetry, which uses words, phrases, metaphors and imagery for similar purposes.
Bleurose Dec 2020
Think of these playlists
Poems I didn't write
But I wish I had
Most of them are a perfect fit for your
Beautiful soul
How I love you.
How I see you.

If you are crafted one of these from me,
Music is poetry, poetry my deepest soul,

You have received one of the greatest expressions of love I can give.

Do not take this lightly.
Too often we are given things, ungrateful, or flippant.
Gifts should mean more, not out of obligation. No.
They are loved, crafted or selected from the deepest of hearts.
Or at least they should be.

I love
I love you.
Olivia Daniels Jan 2019
He made me a playlist
of lullabies and melodies
(well really EDM)

for good mornings
when he wasn't there
but thought of me anyways

Something Wonderful for the Morning
but not as wonderful as him
I hope he knows.

say hello
greet the day
drop the bass
think of you

In all my years of
boy after boy
I found one who thinks of me.

you can't understand
how much it means to me
when my philosophy has always been
music is a part of me

and you got it right.
j Dec 2018
its three o'clock
i wish i wasn't going home alone
my sadness, it *****
then add this playing melancholic tone

the same playlist on repeat
i keep on thinking of you
my heart still skips a beat
i love you, always

--jeannery a.

what's the date five days ago? It was written five days agoo soooooooooooo
Fay Castro Jan 2017
You drop the call
And I drop the phone.
I say goodnight
And try to sleep.

I search the long-abandoned rooms in my mind
For a song to put me to sleep
And I hear a familiar tune
Waft through a room that’s forever frozen
In a cloudy, but lovely day in the middle of September, 2016.
It’s a room I abandoned so long ago.

It’s been lingering for a while
I just haven’t noticed.
Listening to the old playlists does that to you, I guess.
But the memories flood back.

The messages, the voicemails, the questions-
What’s your favourite hat? What’s your favourite bean?
Questions I’ve asked you, my love.
And I’m sorry
But I’ve asked them before.
With different answers, from a very different man.

At first it was a trickle
Nothing major, just drops.
And then the tune played
Over and over

The floodgates opened, and memories poured down upon my brain
Knives and scraps of steel and alcohol mixed with the water
His name
Over and over
A name I’ve tried so hard to forget
And then tried so hard to bludgeon when I couldn’t.

It’s 3am.
And now I recall all the names.
Everyone I’ve lost, every single name that could break me.
Every single one.
Now I know what living with regret feels like
Now I know what it feels like to be broken
Now I know what it feels like to die,
Just a little bit inside, every day.

Now I know pain.
Now I know life.
I can't push him out of my head any longer.
she likes a little bitterness in her food
a little hunger in her kisses
a little sweetness in her tears
a little irony in her wishes

give her flowers in the street
and post Novembers on her walls
write her playlists to sleep to
and run with her when rain falls

walk the long road with her
as cruel as it may be
she will warm you to her very last--
if you would share her story.
written between August 30, 2015 and October 20, 2015.

Finally completed, with the help of a good friend.

— The End —