When The Day Is Done

   

So I picked up my guitar again. I didn't feel anything special. I was glad I just remembered the chords.

I played a few Dylan tunes. I was frustrated: I couldn't keep up with the rhythm in I Want You. Barre chords were a torture to my hand. My fingers ached. I couldn't play the songs I liked. And what I could actually play was too damn boring.

I tried to play some of mine. I could only remember little bits of 'em. I must be the only person who doesn't know his own songs...

I thought of Peter Green, one of the greatest guitar players on earth. He went completely mad because of a drug habit. It took him several years to recover. When he got his mind back together, he had to relearn how to play. From the very start.

I thought of Cat Stevens, who had just recorded his first pop song in 28 years, Indian Ocean. A 28 year hiatus without playing his guitar.

I thought of myself, a poor aspiring musician.  You see, music is one of the few things I like on this earth, and sadly enough I'm not good at it. I didn't even remember what made me start to play the piano.

And suddenly, yes, I remembered. I'm not a man of words. I do not manipulate them easily, at least when I'm face to face with someone. To me, music is the only way to express certain things.

Sometimes music is all that remains when the day is done and you're nothing but a solitary wreck.