This blank screen terrifies me. The cursor blinks. I search for the words. And in the back of my mind, there’s a cold little voice telling me it’s pointless. That I’ve said everything meaningful I’ll ever say about music. That I’m washed up and irrelevant. That the music I care most about, and the medium by which I communicate my love for that music, has passed me by. The voice whispers. And I hear the soundtrack to my life softly echo through my head like an abandoned radio station hallway. The fluorescent marquee sputtering, fizzling, and coughing up the bygones of a lost era. My era.

The empty space sits like a verdict — relentless, accusatory.

This is the kind of tension that comes with age. No one ever told me my youthful anxiety of never amounting to anything would morph into being worried I’ll only be remembered for what’s behind me. And it’s a funny kind of cruel, because I’m a little ashamed to admit it. But, honestly, I’ve been thinking about all of this a lot lately. The past, the glory days of the punk and emo scene. Growing up, giving in, the bands that have come and gone. And I’ve been thinking about the pressure that builds over time, how the momentum of not doing becomes intoxicating. By not doing, you never have to worry about failure. You can make up stories in your head about all the reasons it’s not worth trying, and your ego stays nice and protected.

But I’ve also been watching all these artists push against that pressure, lean against that momentum, and emerge bursting with creativity and a newfound sense of purpose. Freed of the shackles of needing to live up to the expectations of being the next big thing, or having to follow up their massive hit records, they’re able to tap into a creative force and deliver music that moves beyond just being a nostalgic feint. And it inspires me. I’ve been spending the past few months immersed in new music from the bands only we knew. Bands with funny names like Motion City Soundtrack, The Format, and The Starting Line. Little gems from our youth that always felt like a shared secret — ours and ours alone.

And that voice in my head? That one that tells me to stop trying, that no one reads anymore? That asks if our past is the best we will ever know? I know the antidote. I’ve known it most of my life. It involves headphones, a volume slider, and a great fucking song.