If I could gatekeep all my music I would.

I swear, nothing in this cursed world has taught me disappointment quite like watching good music get dragged into the mud by the internet.

I find a song, beautiful, haunting, addictive, the kind that makes my chest feel too small and for a brief moment I think:

"Finally. Something pure. Something untouched."

And then…

then I make the mistake of scrolling.

Suddenly that same masterpiece is paired with a low-effort Gacha Life edit where pastel chibi characters are reenacting some tragic “love triangle” with expressions that don’t even move.

Great.

My song is now the official soundtrack of twelve-year-olds roleplaying toxic relationships in 144p.

Do you understand the rage?

The betrayal?

It’s like watching someone dip a priceless painting into a bucket of neon slime for “content.”

Music means something to me.

Real music.

Music that hits so hard it feels like it rearranges the bones in your spine.

Lyrics that punch you in the throat.

Melodies that you swear were written specifically for that one feeling you never talk about.

And then suddenly it’s everywhere

trending, overused, strangled by edits, slapped onto cringe compilations.

It becomes the anthem of whatever cursed trend the algorithm vomits out that week.

By the time the hype dies, the song feels polluted.

Contaminated.

Like it’s no longer mine, no longer intimate just something people chew up for ten seconds of attention.

I know it sounds dramatic, but honestly?

Some songs deserve reverence.

Some songs deserve silence around them.

Not shaky screenshots, not badly spliced scenes, not “my OC crying because her crush rejected her” animations.

If you ever see me pause a song halfway through and sigh dramatically, just know

I found another track I love,

and I know the internet is already plotting its downfall.

Music is sacred.

Gacha Life edits are…

the opposite.