I was in Walmart the other night, where the floor tiles are always kind of sticky and the lights make you look like you haven’t slept in days, grabbing Oreos and a half gallon of milk. the air smelled like popcorn, rubber flip-flops, and Subway bread. somebody was arguing with the self-checkout. carts squeaking, price checks blaring, and in the next aisle, a kid screamed like a horror movie extra.
and then Fake Plastic Trees came on.
Thom Yorke’s aching voice floated over shelves of discount cereal and two-for-one detergent, singing about artificial lives and real longing like it was meant for right there, in the middle of all of it. the song’s tender, quiet pulse, its subtle but strong emotional pull, seemed to fill the space, its fragility cutting through the hum of the world around it.
I paused. looked around. people comparing prices, scrolling their phones. did anyone else hear it? did they know what it was? did it matter?
maybe it was some accidental irony — Radiohead in Walmart. or maybe it was just low enough to blend into the background.
but the thing is, it didn’t feel strange to me.
Fake Plastic Trees playing while I stood there with a box of cookies in my hand (yes, I know — double-stuff irony), under bad lighting, surrounded by people debating paper towels — it made sense.
like the world had accidentally made the perfect remix. my night, their errands, Thom Yorke’s voice spilling out over all of it. everything else just happening in the background, while that song said something real.
and maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be sometimes. not staged, not sacred — just there. and if you catch it — if you actually let yourself hear it — it hits different.
now and then, people tell me my music belongs in a coffee shop somewhere. like it needs the right vibe to mean something. but I’ve never played a coffee shop. probably never will.
they hear soft and quiet and think background. but a lot of the time, it’s more than that. quiet can wreck you. quiet can tell the story of someone who’s wrecked. quiet can heal you. quiet can tell the truth when nothing else will.
and the truth is — music finds the people it’s meant for. whether it’s in a tiny hole in the wall or between the cereal and the checkout line.
somebody out there will hear it — like, really hear it. and if they let it in, it’ll sit with them. maybe change the way they feel about the world for a minute. maybe about themselves.
and that’s enough.
cookie nieves 
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