I miss you.
I listened to you during my morning commute. I listened to you while I worked. I listened to you on my way home. You provided the soundtrack to the movie of my life.
Carrying you with me was a little pocket of bright beauty: happy blue buttons on a light background helping me navigate a collection of exciting album covers. I knew my favorite morning album by its uppercase yellow letters against an illustrated purple forest. I knew my favorite pick-me-up album by its intimate macro shot of a green budding plant. I felt as if I had collected these albums and were picking them out from a shelf before each listen. I gravitated toward them based on a combination of their cover and my mood, and you made that easy. You transformed the physical act of browsing a collection of music albums into a digital experience.
I admit I am no music expert. My taste in music is driven purely by exciting or calming my emotions. I only ever wanted to get in, press play, and get out. And you never fought me on this. You said, ok. You said, when you’re done, I’ll keeping playing similar music for you. When I was feeling adventurous, you said ok, here’s something a little different. You introduced me to so much new music that I would have never found on my own.
You were never fussy, cheery, and nonjudgmental. You gently guided me without directing me. You were a frictionless extension of my musical mood.
Rest In Peace, Rdio.