Compact Disc

For a long time

I've turned music into work.

A list of albums,

A list of songs,

A list of bands.


A to-do list. Always expanding. Always looming.


I watched as the entire catalog of streaming pulled further and further away from me

Miles stretching between us

As I chased after it.

As I chased the high

Of obsessive

Fiery

Passion

For every song I saw on the horizon.


Then one day

I wiped it clean.

Burned the list.


I bought a CD.

A little disc of passionately crafted art

Small enough to fit in my pocket—though I wouldn't want to scratch it. 


Suddenly, the music was right there in my paws.

I could touch it.

There was no chase.

The music wasn't a looming beast.

It was there, in my paws.

One album.

A selection of songs, and then it ended.


I was free, in that moment.

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