"Beautiful."
These are the only words that ever come to my mind whenever I look at my guitar.
It's the time of day when the sun's almost about to set, and for as long as I live, I shall never fail to be amazed at just how mysterious this normally mundane world can become, when darkness and light are but concepts to be ignored, and the reality is a wondrous intertwining of the two.
Twilight. It's my favorite time of the day, and though I'm sure the word has been demonized in the minds of millions of scornful men around the world by the overly hormonal writings of oneStephenie Meyer, I stand by it.
So, to the story.
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The world all around me seems afire with shadow, cold and warmth conveyed in equal measures. The sun shining through the window with light as red as blood. I idly strum away at her and am rewarded by an unappealing minor chord. I frown and curse under my breath. Today had been uninspired to say the least.
I abandon my pick, and set my fingers upon her strings. Cold to the touch, but warm as only metal or the skin of a lover could ever hope to be. As I hunch over her, I'm immersed in shadow. The only light on any part of me, shines on the guitar in my hands, a limb as vital as any other I possess. I try to bring to mind the compositions made in days gone by, but fail as it seems is my particular curse to do.
I sit in silence, occasionally making a beginning, but always falling short of cohesion. Try as I might, there didn't seem anything I could compose, that wouldn't seem clichéd or was good enough to pass muster. I fell back against the couch, and in let my guitar fall flat across my knees.
I stewed in the silence, dejected. It was pretty much a first for my mind to fail me so entirely at this.
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Authors Note: I picked up my metaphorical pen after two months at this point. So you'll understand if the story lacks a little umm... oomph.
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My eyes wandered, trying to escape from the failure at hand. And when that failed as well, I let my eyes fall back down.
And my heart skipped a beat.
Let me be clear. My guitar, though she isn't the fanciest one around, is something I love too much to able to describe in words. To say she was a part of me would be an understatement. My need to breathe dulls in comparison to my need for her.
Even so, it was in that moment, when I looked down at her, that I truly grasped just how beautiful she was. My Willow. My singing tree. The twilight sun, caressed her lush curves ever so softly, the darkness accentuating what the light could not. Caught between two worlds, there stood my Willow.
To say that inspiration exploded in my mind would be a fallacy. It wasn't an 'Eureka' moment.
It was so much more.
I picked her up, reverently, and placed my fingers on the strings. And I began to play.
The music flowed from her, and from me by extension. I no longer existed. I fell into her so completely as to lose myself in the warmth of her touch. And the music flowed. An eternal river flowing from infinity to infinity. Or so it felt to me, lost in the storm, searching for the eye.
And so it went. When I finally re-emerged, I could do nothing for a long time after but stare in wonder at her. My Willow. I love her so.
As the sun fell over the horizon, the last of it's rays touched on her strings. To my eyes, she was bathed in light. And so I see her, and so I shall, till the end of my days.
Fin
P.S. - As odd as it may seem to attach so much meaning to a piece of wood strung with metal, almost every guitarist you'll ever meet will feel the same. Or maybe they won't. But I've always felt that unless you hold true love for the instrument you carry, you aren't a real musician.
