May I?
Pick it up, cradle it. Feels natural, body-shaped, luthiered for humanity.
Sure.
Strings painful, high-actioned, cutting into the uncalloused and unpracticed. Laziness and unfamiliarity to bite the fingertips.
You play?
Those few memorised chords, hard-won from a summer back in 1995: dreams of stardom beckoned, Dad’s old guitar was wheedled. Mine, now. Then.
Not really.
Now, they’re scratchy and ill-formed: too many strings struck, not enough pressure, changes slow and stumbling.
Not for a while.
Shame, anger, frustration bloom, but so do joy and freedom. Pick at notes that sound good. Make the song fit to the chords: flat and slow and awkward but it’s there. Pride and embarrassment. Listen to what I can play, but also don’t, but please do.
Listen.
#MastoPrompt #MicroFiction #SmallStories @tanweerdar@mstdn.social