The More You Stay the Same (The More They Seem to Change)
Posted: 12 Jun 2014, 10:48
He had bought it from a tiny little shop sandwiched between bright signs and bold print. It was shoved there like a forgotten bit of paper, subdued and quiet. Musty, too, just like old books and stale oil, like a warehouse for past lives and wounded, haunting souls. Like his, he supposed, when he had breathed it all in. Like coming home. Home wasn’t what it was anymore and maybe he should just park himself here for the rest of eternity.
He could have bought it from his location of employment, of course, even requested lessons from his employer. Not that he’d ever really had an honest to god conversation with him. He floated in to work and floated back out. Get in, get out, get paid. It was better than nothing but rotting away in his apartment. Which was why he’d bought the thing in the first place.
An effort that came too late, but then, it was terrible practice to make life choices based on the fleeting promise of company, wasn’t it? His father had left his mother when her illness got too hard to manage for a grown man, but not for a seventeen year old boy. Success had distanced his sister from both himself and their mother. Illness had taken his mother away before her body went with her.
Power had made him arrogant and he wanted to play god and now his mother and sister were really gone, really buried, except his sister’s ghost followed him around like an invisible parrot. Polly want a cracker when the cracker is consequence free judging his life choices.
He carted the thing in its beat up case into his apartment building and into the elevator, up to the floor he lived on in his terribly taken care of apartment. Maybe he should get some potted plants while he was at it.
The thing, of course, was an instrument. An old acoustic guitar that had seen much better days. With his foot, he shoved a few boxes out of the way to slide the previously untouched glass pane, studiously covered with a thick drape, open. Harper Rock assaulted his senses again and he perched himself outside on his balcony.
The latches lifted with little effort and he cradled the guitar like it was an idol of some long forgotten religion, ascribed to now to save his patchwork soul. His teeth sank into his lip as he dragged a thumb over the strings, wincing at the off key assault.
His phone switched to a tuner and he carefully turned the keys, pristine perfect on pitch in moments. Untrained, untested, digits spanned over the frets and he picked along, carefully, like a mistake would shatter this like finely blown glass.
He stayed, back bowed over it, focused on the image swimming in his mind of the chords he needed until he was gaining confidence with the rhythm, like summer warming his skin.
Three little birds sat on my window, and they told me I don’t need to worry.
He could have bought it from his location of employment, of course, even requested lessons from his employer. Not that he’d ever really had an honest to god conversation with him. He floated in to work and floated back out. Get in, get out, get paid. It was better than nothing but rotting away in his apartment. Which was why he’d bought the thing in the first place.
An effort that came too late, but then, it was terrible practice to make life choices based on the fleeting promise of company, wasn’t it? His father had left his mother when her illness got too hard to manage for a grown man, but not for a seventeen year old boy. Success had distanced his sister from both himself and their mother. Illness had taken his mother away before her body went with her.
Power had made him arrogant and he wanted to play god and now his mother and sister were really gone, really buried, except his sister’s ghost followed him around like an invisible parrot. Polly want a cracker when the cracker is consequence free judging his life choices.
He carted the thing in its beat up case into his apartment building and into the elevator, up to the floor he lived on in his terribly taken care of apartment. Maybe he should get some potted plants while he was at it.
The thing, of course, was an instrument. An old acoustic guitar that had seen much better days. With his foot, he shoved a few boxes out of the way to slide the previously untouched glass pane, studiously covered with a thick drape, open. Harper Rock assaulted his senses again and he perched himself outside on his balcony.
The latches lifted with little effort and he cradled the guitar like it was an idol of some long forgotten religion, ascribed to now to save his patchwork soul. His teeth sank into his lip as he dragged a thumb over the strings, wincing at the off key assault.
His phone switched to a tuner and he carefully turned the keys, pristine perfect on pitch in moments. Untrained, untested, digits spanned over the frets and he picked along, carefully, like a mistake would shatter this like finely blown glass.
He stayed, back bowed over it, focused on the image swimming in his mind of the chords he needed until he was gaining confidence with the rhythm, like summer warming his skin.
Three little birds sat on my window, and they told me I don’t need to worry.