The Guitar and Lost Time

I've tried a thousand times to pick up the guitar. Every time, I’d open the case with hope, tune it, play a few chords—then stop. Not tired, not busy, but that sudden retreat, as if the sound of the guitar was more frightening than silence.

I thought I was learning an instrument. Actually, I was learning how to face myself. My fingers press the strings, yet no sound comes; rhythm breaks, and so does my mood. No teacher to correct me, no fixed practice routine—every mistake is mine alone. So I learned to quit, to pretend the silent guitar doesn’t matter.

But I don’t believe it doesn’t matter. I’m just afraid of sustained effort—twenty minutes every day, even if it’s just a simple arpeggio, even if I repeat one broken pattern until it stops shaking. That patience—the skill I still haven’t mastered.

Maybe the real difficulty isn’t learning fingerings or chords, but accepting my own rhythm: slow, unstable, easily distracted. Allowing myself to misplace a chord one day without closing the case, trying again the next. Understanding that progress isn’t a straight line—it’s a series of loops back.

Now I still pick up the guitar sometimes. Not necessarily to play, but to remember: I’m not wrestling with an object, but making peace with myself. Each time I take it up, it’s a small victory—not because I play well, but because I don’t set it down again.

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