Date: Dec 3rd, 2005 1:55:37 pm - Subscribe
Mood: Bleeding fingers
Music: \'While my guitar gently weeps\'- The Beatles
A broken guitar.
Abandoned on the streets, left on the curb dismembered and dirty; grime covering it's once shining hollow body.
Steel strings are snapped at the bottom of the neck, the neck itself only be connected to the body by the lonesome high E string wanting more than anything to vibrate it's sweet sound once more.
But as person after person pass the weeping guitar, it can only grow more depressed as it no longer cares when cars narrowly miss it, sending waves of intoxicated water caressing over it, impurifying it even more; life doesn't matter.
Pushed up against the curb, washed out, hope lost, the broken guitar utters not one sound. It can't. The magic is lost. The soul is shattered into sharp silver pieces in the middle of the street as car after car runs over it, leaving tire tracks with no concern for what they left behind.
More grime plasters over it's surface. The strings flap lifelessly in the burning wind; the lowly high E trying not to cry when another wave of slicing pain tells it to let go and break along with all the others.
A pitiful scream escapes the intact string, knowing that the end is near, but just when it thinks all living is pointless, a pair of strong hands pick up the two broken pieces. Eyes scan over it as fingers trace along the body, cleaning off layers of the past in one swipe, allowing the original warm color of the wood to peek through once more.
When consciousness comes once again, purity flows in under the name of light; warmness clinging to fanged icicles.
For a brief second, the E string notices something- that's it's whole again. The neck and body are joined together, and the whole guitar has been cleaned to surpass it's former glory. But there's a problem. It's is just sitting there, placed on a stand under a plate of bullet proof glass.
What good can something be when it can't bring happiness to others?
Depression sets in once more. You're alive but you're dead at the same time. You sit there with your brain functioning, but limbs wont move and mouth wont speak; deaf, blind, mute, numb.
But before the knife can be pulled out, the same pair of strong hands picks up the guitar, moving it around in the warm air until it is handed to a pair of smaller hands that instantly hold the instrument as if it were made of glass.
A converse all star shoe counts out the beats against a warm wooded floor and with one slow strum down the strings, life begins again.
Suddenly a cool, jazzy solo erupts from the small fingers, hands running up and down the neck, strings vibrating with a sense of loving one can only receive from a musical instrument. Life flows through the guitar, the hands giving it new hopes, dreams, and a reason to keep on giving- happiness.
As the E string is played at different frets, making new notes, it realizes that the strings above it are not the ones from before. The broken original strings that chose to give up are not part of the new soul of the ancient guitar. Because those strings chose to give up, they didn't have the chance to see what greatness awaited them if they had just held on a bit longer. They didn't get the chance to see what they really meant to people; what the gift of life really means.
Now only one original string of the guitar sings sweetly, the lovely mix of sound pleasing even the pickiest of ears.
The duct tape is off the muted mouth, blood is out of the deaf ears, closed eyes are now opened, and feeling is restored to the once emotionless piece of lost history.
Music reflects off mirrors and into the soul, instantly capturing something everyone can love. Life flows like rushing water running through closed fingers; we never expect it to make it through, but somehow the water slips through the invisible openings of our hands- free- like we can become.
A broken guitar no more.
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