Something inside me feels like it has been taken away, but I keep searching for opportunities within every opportunity. The journey of being a curator has pulled me in so deeply that I can’t escape it—even when I try. It’s more than playlists, more than algorithms; it’s a way of living, a way of listening. Not everything in the community can be shared without consent, I’ve learned; music and moments—like photographs drying on a line—don’t always fit in the same frame. Still, I can’t let go.
Curation has become immersive, almost addictive. I imagine it growing the way streaming has grown—beyond just audio platforms, spilling into the social fabric of our lives. Already, collaborations like Instagram and Spotify linking live-streamed songs directly into the moment show how listening is evolving. Music is no longer just a background track; it’s something you can broadcast, something you can share instantly, tied to memory, mood, and movement. That kind of connection inspires me, because it’s exactly how I experience sound: alive, immediate, and communal.
But I remind myself: it’s not enough to just type, scroll, or listen. I have to invest in living—actually doing things, not just zoning out behind a screen. Sometimes I feel like a child when music elevates me, the way festivals like Dashain once did back home in Nepal. That festival glow, mixed with a Hindu identity and glimpses of Christian parades I’ve witnessed abroad, keeps me inspired. It reminds me that belief takes many forms, but all of them can fuel art.
Fashion and music weave into this story too. Virgil Abloh’s shoes, Lupe Fiasco’s words—both carry the same symbolic weight: art as resistance, art as storytelling. When I listen to “Shoes” by Lupe Fiasco, I hear more than a song about sneakers; I hear consumerism, tragedy, and survival stitched into every bar. It feels like a mirror of how I chase meaning through objects, playlists, and sound itself.
Then there’s “Prick” by Westside Gunn featuring Brother Tom SOS. That song bleeds honesty—the pain, the rawness, the “doing it for the homies” energy. When I hear it, I think about the maxed-out credit cards, the dreams of big theaters and private jets, and the heavy truth that behind every luxury, there’s a sad story too. Those are the real bars, the kind that make you feel both broken and blessed.
I stand somewhere between these two worlds. Like Lupe’s “Shoes”, I’m reflecting on what it means to wear symbols and carry stories. Like Westside Gunn’s “Prick”, I’m carrying scars, debts, and ambitions for my people. Together, they form the soundtrack of my life—one foot in gratitude, the other in struggle.
And through it all, I remain sober, enlightened, blessed, and grateful. Music keeps me alive, even when it feels like it’s killing me. Maybe that’s what being a self-made artist really means—shot dead by sound, reborn through rhythm.
This article is part of The Human Collective. Each week we take a prompt and create a playlist and accompanying articles. This week we’re wondering: what’s been fascinating you lately? Check out the playlist: Songs That Fascinate You. Learn more about The Human Collective here.
About the Curators
Saroz Bhusal
When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest times, and to the latest.
- Henry David Thoreau