Something less theological.

I have a guitar.

This is not really news. It is more a reminder to myself more than anything. It is still there. Propped up against its amp. Calm, restful.

I used to play it an awful lot. Nowadays, I feel it is neglected. I still play it from time to time, but it feels like going through the motions. It used to be that I would see my guitar as a future, a way towards a dream. A means of getting a hit of the one thing I, and many others, want more than anything else: attention.

Maybe admiration is more appropriate. Or, perhaps, recognition. Whatever the accurate term, this guitar would be my means to that end. Part of a partnership that would both reach to the stars and scrape along the gutters and throw what it picked up from these colourful dwellings at the faces and eardrums of those caught in the middle. And I would float on the wave of appreciation that I received in return, blissfully satisfied at what I had created; what I had done to the world. Everytime I picked up my guitar in the past, I felt somehow attached to that future.

Now, however, that feeling is not there. Though I still feel a sense of relief as I let each strained and howling note or chord be my mental expression, this has now become tainted by a feeling of futility. I strum along the strings half-heartedly, each slipped accidental a surrender to apathy. A question as to why I even try. I play, knowing full well how much I doubt myself; my ability. And though the dream is still there, it is much more melancholic and distant. My future self seeing the truth of the make-believe. The fabrication that he both resides in and represents. The stars and the gutter are both there, but they seem empty, not worth persuing. Or more truthfully, whilst they are within reach, I doubt I would know what I sought even if I found it.

Twenty-four frets and six strings; a language I once knew but struggle to speak these days. And I'm not sure I really want to sometimes.

What will become of my writing? I write so infrequently as it is and with no real direction. I conceive ideas but cannot face raising them. Like my music, I also question my writing. Can I really take it anywhere? Or is it just another illusion, a distraction from deciding on a life between the gutter and the stars?

I don't like being introspective and I will probably regret posting this when I wake up. I'm not sure what the purpose of posting this will be. But I'm not really sure I've been being myself when writing lately. I've been trying to be important, trying to make sure I could justify each entry. Trying to write about the world, so that I might work a space for myself in it. But no-one remembers a news article. Everyone remembers a song.