We Curate Futures: Seventeen Playlists, Zero Plays
I have seventeen playlists I’ve never played. Each one carefully curated for imaginary versions of myself: “Focus Music” for the productive writer I plan to become, “Rainy Day” for melancholy I might someday want to indulge, “Road Trip” for adventures I haven’t taken, “Cooking” for domestic enthusiasm I rarely feel.
We create playlists for people we intend to be rather than people we are.
The act of curation feels meaningful even when the consumption never happens. Selecting songs, arranging them in emotional sequence, titling the collection with aspirational names—this process satisfies something that actually listening to the music might not.
Making playlists is emotional architecture; we’re designing soundtracks for lives we’re not yet living.
Playlist creation is future self-care.
“Early Morning Motivation” contains forty-three songs I’ve never heard at dawn. But creating it felt like taking care of a future version of myself who would wake energized, ready to exercise, prepared to greet the day with enthusiasm rather than coffee-dependent reluctance.
We curate for our idealized selves, then remain our actual selves who prefer familiar chaos to planned harmony.
My wife has a “Girl’s Night” playlist she’s updated for three years without ever having a girl’s night. The songs accumulate like promises to herself about social connections she wants but struggles to prioritize. The playlist becomes evidence of intention, proof that she values friendship even when she doesn’t practice it.
Unused playlists are museums of good intentions.
The curation process itself provides satisfaction independent of consumption.
Finding the perfect song to bridge one emotion to another, discovering unexpected connections between artists, creating flow that tells an emotional story—this feels like meaningful work even when no one ever experiences the final product.
We become DJs for audiences of zero, curators of experiences we’ll never have.
My son creates playlists for video games he doesn’t play, movies he hasn’t watched, moods he’s never experienced. He’s practicing emotional cartography, mapping feelings through music before he fully understands the territory he’s charting.
Children create playlists like they create imaginary worlds—with complete seriousness about realities that exist only in potential.
Unused playlists reveal the gap between our aspirational and actual identities.
“Study Music” sits unplayed while I work in silence. “Party Mix” accumulates dust while I prefer quiet evenings. “Workout Motivation” remains pristine while I exercise to whatever happens to be playing on the radio.
We create soundtracks for the lives we think we should want rather than the lives we actually choose.
What playlists are you maintaining for versions of yourself that don’t exist? What musical architecture are you building for experiences you’re not having? And what does it mean that the act of curation feels complete even when the consumption never begins?
Perhaps unused playlists aren’t failures but hopes. They’re musical time capsules, ready for the day we become the people we’re preparing soundtracks for.