and if you close your eyes {mattio}
Dec 29, 2015 12:00:14 GMT -5
Post by ghosty on Dec 29, 2015 12:00:14 GMT -5
efram hyde
The weight of the guitar in my arms is calming; the vibration of the strings is matching the twinkle of my fingers on the strings, just an echo of them, a half second later. It makes me happy, that I am the music that everyone hears. And all in my mind is shouting the notes, and the position of my fingers and just words. Lyrics of meaning just jostling for position, and I find the one I want. "i was left, to my own devices. many days, fell away with nothing to show." And as quick as that, my fingers lock into the chords, followed by a whisper of c major, g major, e minor, d major, ringing louder than the words falling off my tongue do.
I want to go home all the time, and show everyone that I love that I'm making money doing the thing that I love, not some hated task trying to keep a farm up and running. See the faces of my brother and my mom again. I don't want to see father's face again, and it's curled up sneer of hatred, of 'get the fuck off my farm'. Show with a smile the new stuff I've learnt, and show the money that I earnt of my own steam. But in the end, it would only mean that I would never leave, and staying meant one thing; seeing each and every string of my guitar being cut off, just like my freedom ever would be. Shut off like the market on Sunday's always is.
Considering the dusty corner that I find myself in, I am free. Open to let everyone be my audience, and a sold-out audience that is, but it's like the reaping; they are forced to watch, and cheer as their friend, their family, become a target practise for some large tribute to show their art upon them. It's similar, but my art is not that of blood and daggers, but is of rhythm, and chords. Feeling the strumming of the chorus, I remember the song, my mind wandering as everything else happens from practise, from memory. It helps that I no longer have to focus on the song, and instead, getting lost in the music is an occurrence that I enjoy, stuck inside my own little bubble, free at last in every way.
I could be taking flight for all I know. Or drowning, either or.
And instead of focusing back onto the guitar, I look up, and I see history. Standing in a group, looking to the stage, waiting, hoping I wasn't going to be called. "Rodrick..." and I stop listening. Seeing the face of a boy younger than I, and I know he isn't going to survive. Not going to come back, and feel the sun on his neck again. And his face is in front of me now, and he's drunk, throwing coins, and missing, the hat on the ground. It's empty, like most of the time. I murmur in shock, "i saw you die, i heard your cannon. ripred, are you dead?" I'm seeing a ghost, inhabitant of a grave since covered. "ar-are you rodrick benstaloe?"
I want to go home all the time, and show everyone that I love that I'm making money doing the thing that I love, not some hated task trying to keep a farm up and running. See the faces of my brother and my mom again. I don't want to see father's face again, and it's curled up sneer of hatred, of 'get the fuck off my farm'. Show with a smile the new stuff I've learnt, and show the money that I earnt of my own steam. But in the end, it would only mean that I would never leave, and staying meant one thing; seeing each and every string of my guitar being cut off, just like my freedom ever would be. Shut off like the market on Sunday's always is.
Considering the dusty corner that I find myself in, I am free. Open to let everyone be my audience, and a sold-out audience that is, but it's like the reaping; they are forced to watch, and cheer as their friend, their family, become a target practise for some large tribute to show their art upon them. It's similar, but my art is not that of blood and daggers, but is of rhythm, and chords. Feeling the strumming of the chorus, I remember the song, my mind wandering as everything else happens from practise, from memory. It helps that I no longer have to focus on the song, and instead, getting lost in the music is an occurrence that I enjoy, stuck inside my own little bubble, free at last in every way.
I could be taking flight for all I know. Or drowning, either or.
And instead of focusing back onto the guitar, I look up, and I see history. Standing in a group, looking to the stage, waiting, hoping I wasn't going to be called. "Rodrick..." and I stop listening. Seeing the face of a boy younger than I, and I know he isn't going to survive. Not going to come back, and feel the sun on his neck again. And his face is in front of me now, and he's drunk, throwing coins, and missing, the hat on the ground. It's empty, like most of the time. I murmur in shock, "i saw you die, i heard your cannon. ripred, are you dead?" I'm seeing a ghost, inhabitant of a grave since covered. "ar-are you rodrick benstaloe?"
