I play the guitar.
Or at least, I used to play the guitar.
I was once obsessed with my guitar. I think I once fell asleep hugging my guitar like a teddy bear. I loved the humming vibration crawling all over my body when the strings were strummed, I loved the hollow – yet sturdy sound of the body, and I loved that roasted, cinnamon scent of mahogany.
I also loved music.
From the complex and twirling rhythm of Jazz, tapping my window like rain,
Greasy and violent hard rock, stampeding the hall,
To country music – deep yet weightless, smoke of a cigarette.
I loved it all.
Weak scent of watered-downed beer and cigarette.
Every time I see those bumps and scratches I made while carrying around the guitar – it’s like I can smell them.
The days when I slept on a crappy mattress in my studio with my friends for weeks.
Watching the sunrise while strumming the strings.
I even took two semesters off from college to study, practice, and learn about guitar.
I even did some woodworking because I wanted to make my own guitar.
But there came a moment.
A moment where I realized that music no longer brought me pleasure and happiness – but instead brought stress and pain.
And that terrified me.
So, I went back to college.
But sometimes, when I’m walking down the streets,
I find myself fiddling and flinching my fingers – playing the chords of ‘Stairways to heaven’.