I Play to Live

Wiping sweat from the strings. We call it gunge – the sweat mixed with dust and grime that has accumulated at the frets and gets picked up as the fingers press the strings down to run scales, chords and arpeggios across the neck at speeds that fingers were never meant for.

      I wash my hands. I wash them of sweat. Of the build up of intensity knowing that I passed a barrier of string skipping previously locked to me. Like the feeling of placing the controller on the ground after a five hour battle against Black Dragon Kalameet, looking at your shaking hands, contemplating the many deaths incurred, and asking yourself “was winning the fight worth this?”

      Water pours across my skin. Warmth and relaxation.

      It is always worth it. It is the achievement. What can be done where could not be done before.

      Water falls and tumbles to the sink and down the drain hole. I dry my hands on the towel avoiding the mirror and the smug satisfaction of the face that will stare back. I won. I completed the task. I achieved what lesser people than I cannot.

      But I know it matters little to those who cannot hear the melodies within, the chords arpeggiated beyond their rudimentary beginnings. They drink their teas and read their papers, they stare out at a fading sunset that parallels their own lives; they make small talk about their days gone by.