Still Listening

In the long hours at Rudolph Hall, when the temptation to distract takes over, I cave to scouring the depths of Spotify for the recently played artists of someone I left behind when I moved here—someone I made a no-contact agreement with. Although I’m not technically breaking the rules, I know I’m cheating the code.

While I have been mostly successful in rationing my attention away from social media in recent years, Spotify has proved the stubborn straggler. I can’t help but reserve a portion of that attention for people from my past, with whom I have otherwise lost all physical and digital touch.

The digital sphere’s promise of a safe distance from which to surveil acquaintances, crushes, exes, or parasocial idols is perhaps a universal weakness. We’re aware of this mutual surveillance, but still willingly participate for the sake of sentimental attachment, knowing Mr. Foucault would probably hang his head in shame. Spotify’s grasp on my attention feels particularly insidious because it promises access to the emotional states of others through what they listen to—a far more intimate tether than other social media platforms.

In these moments, Spotify exploits my most predictable vulnerabilities, and that’s why I can’t quit. Not yet. Someday, I will be ready to break away, to accept that this form of touch is only spectral. But for now, I linger in the auditory soundscapes of someone half the world away, and I accept defeat.