When I was eight, my mom drove me to my first guitar lesson. Anxious, but excited, my heart beat fast.
Today, at nineteen, I sit at my desk, watching the rain peacefully fall onto the sea, making ripples. People outside are smiling, under their umbrellas, enjoying the Christmas songs playing from the town’s sound system. With an exam in 24 hours, I can’t afford that. I rush home and put on my most cosy pyjamas.”Okay, you can do this” I tell myself. Cup of coffee in my hand, glasses on, I open up the tabs I’d been ignoring since my mind drifted to useless Youtube videos at 1 AM this morning. Habit takes over, and I head to my Spotify tab. Suggested playlists: “Peaceful Guitar”.... Hmmm, matches the mood, will help me concentrate... Why Not?
As the first note plays, everything but peace overcomes me. I am flooded with thoughts of you. I remember the first time I saw you play. Innocent, young, passionate. I remember the time I stood in the front row, inebriated both by too many glasses of white wine, and the thought of (maybe) having you be mine. I remember walking home with you that night, covered in the same raindrops that are falling today. I remember that time I heard you play at Poetry Night, nestled under the staircase. You were wearing the sweater I am wearing right now. I remember when I asked you to come get coffee with me, “we need to talk”... “No, I can’t. I just want to sit inside and play guitar today”. From outside your front door, I want to scream: Fuck you, and fuck your guitar. I remember coming into your house, a few weeks ago. As soon as I enter, I am overcome by your fingers gliding over these six strings. But this time, I fight my instinct. I hurry immediately inside, I have no more energy to waste on you. I am tired.
As the playlist plays, I feel my heart beat fast again. But I am not eight anymore. I am not excited. I am not anxious. I am empty.
Maybe “Peaceful Guitar” isn’t false advertisement after all.
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