You’ve heard it before — nothing is punk anymore. It’s a phrase muttered online like cultural white noise, half lament, half flex. A low-grade mourning for something people can’t quite define (but swear they’d recognize if they saw it). This post isn't about safety pins or mosh pits; it’s about something deeper — the quiet death (or rapid mutation) of rebellion itself. Punk, in its truest form, was never just a genre. It was an instinct. A defiant orientation toward the world.