Give Me Something to Sing About

Some days, the music lands before the words do. A riff crashes in, the beat locks with your pulse, and suddenly everything aligns. The noise in your brain turns into clarity. The spark flares up. You feel it—not just in your ears, but in your gut, your fingertips, your spine.

You’re not just writing—you’re testifying. Translating rhythm into language. Pulling emotion out of distortion. Making sense of the sound.

On those days, every song gives you something. Something to say. Something to feel. It’s electric. Effortless. You can write a whole review, a full essay, a love letter to a breakdown that lasted five seconds but shook you for hours. The music doesn’t just inspire you—it possesses you.

When the music feels distant. Off. Like someone turned it down and walked away. And no matter what you press play on, nothing clicks. You hear it, but you don’t feel it.

You sit there, scrolling through albums you used to love, trying to force the spark. You start writing—maybe a sentence or two—and then stop. Everything feels flat. Forced. Stupid. You reread things you wrote when the fire was lit, and all you can do is cringe.

How did I think this mattered?

Why did I believe in this?

And yeah, I’m heartbroken.

I’m heartbroken because I can’t seem to hear the thing that usually saves me.

And when the music stops speaking to you, it’s like losing a friend. Or a part of yourself.

But no matter how dark it gets, there’s always a Buffy meme around, right? That one line from Once More, with Feeling hit me sideways this morning: “Give me something to sing about.”

It’s not just a lyric. It’s a plea. A prayer. A scream into the static.

So today, I put on the shirt.

Sunnydale High, Class of ’99.

Not because I feel powerful — but because I remember what it felt like to be.

To sing. To write. To burn.

And maybe I’m not there right now.

But I will be.

The spark always comes back.

The music always returns.

I just have to be ready when it does.