There was a time when the only thing that mattered to me was my guitar.
Every moment I was away from it was a longing to hold it in my arms. But more than that, it was the pluck of the strings, the joy of finding notes resonate together like forgotten melancholy. Join one on two and tunes unfold.
That was all that mattered to me.
Not because I was ignorant towards the world, nor uncaring, just because whatever made me, also created within me a rule, a law, maybe even a curse; unless I was locked into the arms of a song, I could feel no peace. It was as simple as that.
It was a passion.
I played everyday until I was 27. I waited for her for all those years. Thinking of nothing but her. Dreaming of her, every minute of every day believing she would one day be mine, completely. In the end hunger, loneliness, and the emptiness of the wait drove me to seek a cure to my longing. I found it in the world of man; in work, in money, in friends and good times. No, it wasn’t all bad. But I missed her, and my dream of her, once clear, began to fade. It became an echo. Something I could vaguely remember, but never quite recall.
I write this now aged 41. Already in many ways a veteran of the world. I found myself thinking about her today. So I took pen to paper and let my story fall out onto the page. I feel a shiver in my backbone as I write, and a sigh makes my chest rise then fall. There is a tear there too but it does not swell. She was a mystery to me all along.