The streets were empty, eerie even. No children played in their yards, no laughter filled the air, nothing. Things are not like they used to be. But as I roll down the road, bass bumping and the volume on high, the neighborhood fades away and I find myself elsewhere.

I’m still in my car, but the outside world has all but disappeared, drowned out by the noise of my past. I clutch the steering wheel as memories flicker by like frames on a film reel, unable to comprehend the blur of years past. Deep breaths. Count to ten. My hand instinctively reaches for the radio, nothing a little music won’t cure.

Country. A twangy guitar comes over the stereo, accompanied by a sad story sung by a hurt man. “Whiskey Lullaby” by Brad Paisley. The first song I ever truly remember, it fills me with giddy excitement that I imagine was childlike, but it’s been so long I can hardly remember. It was one of my mom’s favorites, and the ballad washes over me like a dream. I could still see her belting tone-deaf lyrics to nobody but the steering wheel, clear as crystal. And for a moment I was there, buckled into my car seat cheering her on, momma’s backseat groupie. But I wasn’t, I was in my car, years and miles from a childhood that melted away before it’s time. Suddenly the song sounds a little out of tune, I’m not that little boy anymore. Skip.

Hip Hop. A melodic beat comes over the radio, vibrating the car with its heavy bass, only to be butchered by the angry ramblings of none other than Eminem. Flashes of high school cross my mind. Red lockers, poorly lit classrooms, and a building full of strangers that I used to call friends. I’m reminded of the last day I set foot in those halls, the day I dropped out. It was quite a dull affair, I wish I could say otherwise, the culmination of years of truancy and neglect on all sides. The school system had failed me, but more importantly, I had failed myself. Failed to understand who I was, but Marshall Mathers understood what it was like to be misunderstood. His music spoke to me, even when no one else would. As his song continues, dragging on a bit too long (not unlike my high school experience), I cut off the radio. The music stopped before it was over, but there is always another song to be played. Skip.

Punk Rock. A guitar riff comes screaming over the speakers without warning, and in an instant I am slumped in an ugly floral armchair in my therapist’s office. My headphones are in, and I can hardly hear what she is saying over the deafening sounds of Billie Joe Armstrong. Doesn’t matter, she’s just droning on again anyway. “Does it bother you that nothing bothers you?” “How does that make you feel?” I felt nothing. She didn’t believe me, turns out I didn’t either. To be honest, I don’t think I wanted to feel anything, but if you put your hand over a flame it’s going to get burned. There is no telling that to an eighteen-year-old though, especially when he has a guy whispering anti-authoritative rants in his ears all day. That was the darkest point in my life, no doubt fueled by the music I was listening to. Well, no more. Skip.

Singer/Songwriter. Piano pours over the speakers like the gentle flow of a woodland stream, and for the first time during this drive, I feel the slightest sense of peace. K.S. Rhoads lends his angelic voice to the melody, speaking truths and shining lights on the darkest corners of my mind. Chills tickle my spine, and this time no memories are dredged to the surface of my psyche, just the present moment and all its beauty. The music continues to play as I think of how far I’ve come, from high school drop out to thriving college student, I never thought I would make it this far. And even though this moment will end, I will always have these songs to remind me. This is the symphony of my life. Repeat.

– Isaac Russo

Author’s Note: As my first nonfiction piece, there was a certain level of anxiety I felt when submitting that I haven’t felt in years, but that was all the more reason I needed to share, to overcome. I guess if there is one thing I hope people take from reading it, it’s that even if you are struggling right now, one day this will all be a memory. Sometimes we obsess so much about the past that we forget about the moment at hand, and the singular beauty of every passing second, never to be seen again. Yesterday does not define us, and tomorrow is only a dream, so live in the moment. Go write a story or sing a song, dance in your kitchen to whatever is on the radio, just have fun with it!