Songs Are the Save Feature of Our Lives

I've worked with software for 25 years, and saving data has always been one of the core features. Before the Internet, you had to figure out how to save data to the local disk and how often. There was a tradeoff—saving to a file meant using the hard drive, which took time. You didn't want to save too often and slow things down, but you also didn't want to lose important progress by not saving frequently.

I've lost work many times for that exact reason—power outages, system crashes, accidentally closing the window. Saving was a big deal, even if everyone took it for granted.

Yeah. I remember how furious I was when I lost information because I hadn't saved it.

Then the Internet changed things. Suddenly, we didn't have to click a button to save. Autosave became the norm. Our fear of losing data began to fade. Everything is saved—instantly, constantly, forever.

Funny enough, we still use the floppy disk icon to represent saving, even though most people today have never seen one. And most modern software doesn't even have a "Save" option anymore—it automatically saves for you.

Now we work with databases all the time. We decide what to save and how to save it. We want the data to be useful, but also stored efficiently. Behind every beautiful digital product, there's a hidden world of data architecture—thoughtful, intentional, invisible to users, yet essential.

In software, saving information matters. AI has shown us that the more information you keep, the better your system becomes. Companies are racing to collect and preserve as much data as possible, training better models and creating smarter tools. Data is the new oil. That made me wonder—how does that compare to how we, humans, save information?

There are people with near-perfect memory—savant-like abilities to recall everything they've ever read. That's impressive, but it comes at a cost. Like saving too frequently to disk, there's a tradeoff. Exceptional memory comes with weaker social skills. You gain something, but you lose something else. Balance matters.

Computers have the floppy disk icon. People have music.

Somehow, our brains are able to recall memories buried deep in time just by hearing a few seconds of a song. Music brings back feelings, places, and specific moments—instantly. It's like a shortcut to a backup file. That's when it hit me: songs are our save feature.

We listen to thousands of songs, but a few of them unlock core memories. You know which ones. Most have meaning only for you, yet they're always reliable. Always there when you didn't think you had them.

I wonder if it was the same hundreds of years ago. Did people back then use songs to remember? Maybe it's the lullaby your mother hummed to you or the song you struggled to play on an old instrument trying to impress a girl in the tribe. Maybe music goes much more than language. And maybe we’re not the only ones with songs and meaning—just hear nature outside.

Life is incredible, filled with hidden features we take for granted. Little things we try to replicate in what we build. Maybe we can't help but create things that resemble us.

I'm saving this before it gets lost because it doesn't have a song related to it. (I was listening to this one just right now)