Oh to be

Oh to be the fingers plucking the strings of a guitar. Skillfully creating the magic of music that moves even the strongest men to tears. To be the strings that come together in unison to elicit such powerful emotion, melting the being of ice into what it was made to be, a being of flesh.

To be the man behind the hands, working the strings in such a way as to say and convey the depths of his soul to a world full of those who may or may not let themselves be affected by the sheer beauty of that which he creates. How I long to be moved in such a way as those strings cause, bringing light to the darkest parts of my heart that have been hidden away by insecurity and what’s become the norm of being.

What touches you is just pleasing to me, and what ravages me is just to you a simple melody. I don’t pretend to grasp how it works, how pitches and tones can find their way, penetrating even to the marrow of your bones, opening what has been clamped shut for years.

To be utterly laid bare by the chords played by a musician on a guitar is something that I long to understand but resign to accept with all its mystery

As my head now pounds and my body aches with illness, I long to have the skills to make that kind of music. Music that bridges the great gap, the divide between heart and intellect. That brings you outside of yourself and allows you to see something bigger than the self. Transcendence. Connecting heaven and earth in such a powerful way that I cannot say with words what I desire to convey. So if I had the skill, I would resolve to play it.

Oh to be the fingers that glide over the strings, creating a profound depth with the sound that rings out from the body of that humble instrument. To be the strings that are caressed as a beautiful mess is redeemed through the art of music.

Some say that the deepest desire of humanity is to be known and to be heard. How is a musician any different? They bare their soul through the way they play, just asking to be heard, for someone to truly listen what they choose to say.

How purely perfect to be the hand that strums and picks with such poignantly precise power, redeeming though beauty, restoring by means of melody.

I’ll never understand quite how it works, that notes on a page played with skill can move so deeply. Can connect with one’s very being, healing and exposing and ripping walls and makeshift bandages away, revealing what’s truly hidden underneath. That which we would never share voluntarily is exposed through the amazing beauty of music.