​My guitar played itself tonight again. I think it’s trying to tell me something, but whatever it’s supposed to be, I dont seem to get it. 

I mean, don’t get me wrong, guitars playing themselves? I’ll forgive you if you try to rationalize my logic down to roaches jumping on the strings, hell, maybe even a ghost or two. I don’t blame you. 

You see, I’ve always loved the madness to rhythms, always immersed myself in the echoes of strings and percussion, enjoyed a thousand and one winded voices. But I can’t for the love of me learn to play this blue-eyed guitar of mine. 

Mum got me one, after many a pleading and more a nagging. Hell, hooked me up for a lesson or two. But I can’t play. I guess for some, it ends at appreciation and the mangled sounds forced from our persistent but ever disturbing tries on the wooden instrument. 

Pardon me, I digress. I hope one day I can understand why at midnights my lovely guitar moans and cries for me. And why it seems a step farther from me each day. 

Maybe some beautiful things aren’t meant to be touched, or even be near us. Maybe they’re meant to just be close enough to feel but far enough to touch. 

I’ll never know. Because stupid old me still doesn’t give up. And so every morning I get up and put it back in place… Within my heart’s range. 
                                    

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