Me, Guitar, Music.

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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

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But sometimes, when I’m walking down the streets,

I find myself fiddling and flinching my fingers – playing the chords of ‘Stairways to heaven’.

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