My guitar strings are my heart. They break often, but you can always restring your guitar with newer, stronger strings. And little dings and scratches on the guitar are my past; my memories, my experiences, my love, my pain.
I have a lot of scratches and broken strings on my guitar. I’ve had my heart broken too many times by one boy. I loved him but he just didn’t want to be with me.
“Standing in the rain, with his head hung low,
Couldn’t get a ticket, it was a sold out show.”
I still talked to him and loved him though, and it nearly killed me. He was in love with me once, so I knew what I was missing. As I went through this pain, and numerous contemplations of taking my own life, I searched desperately for an outlet.
My first one was not so good I will admit. I did cut myself for a while. I am no longer ashamed to admit it and I will show anyone who asks, my ghosts of scars. Most are gone but there are some that are still visible to remind me never to do that again.
Then I found my guitar, named Roo, my nickname for the boy that destroyed me, hiding in my closet. I remembered putting it in there after The Breakup, vowing that I would never play again. After staring at it for a while, I lifted it out of the closet, found a pick, and sat down on my bed and started playing. Nothing in particular, just random notes. I found myself smiling.
“Bought a beat up six-string, in a secondhand store,
Didn’t know how to play it, but he knew for sure,
That one guitar, felt good in his hands,
Didn’t take long, to understand.”
To many people, guitar strings are merely threads of metal tied onto a guitar. To me, they are so much more. To me, they are my life. My most prized possession is my guitar. It’s a First Act 222. Someday, I want to get an Ibanez or maybe even an Epiphone, once I get better at playing. I’m not really that skilled, but I’m learning, and now, I love playing.
After that day I pulled my guitar out of my closet, I discovered the magical healing powers of guitar strings. Whenever I get depressed, instead of reaching for the razor blade I used to cut myself, I reach for my guitar. Because when I’m playing, when I’m rocking out, I’m transported to another place and time; to a stage in New York, L.A., Paris, London or Tokyo. When I’m playing, no one else exists, and I don’t need to think about anything, and I don’t need to feel anything. Except the music that is coming from my guitar. This is better than any high you can get from any drug. This is the magical remedy of music.
I believe in guitar strings.
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