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14

14

[Jeong Yunho]
> 23rd Feb 2023

      I stared at my guitar a minute longer than I should have. It reminds me of my broken past and an era when I was at my lowest. Many situations have tested my nerves, but nothing did as much as the one related to this guitar. Every object has an backstory, every person has a backstory; why wouldn't my guitar have one? 

      This story dates back to the time when I was in college, attaining to graduate and earn that degree in literature. Although then, I had a knack for singing. I would spend days and nights composing music on this very own guitar, scribble lyrics whenever I had the time to. I mostly wrote about what troubled me—what scared me at times.

      The morning started off great with a little excitement but it plummeted to its death when I saw the guitar lying under my bed. I wondered if I could still play it, strum a few strings and sing a little. The only time I sang my heart out was a day before my graduation; the day I felt truly lost in a maze of unknown sadness, the out-of-nowhere anguish of nothing. I was drowning, but hoped someone would throw me a line to help me out. No one did. No one does. No one understands me. No one understood me then too. 

      I remember it clearly, the sullen moonlight peeking over ambiguous clouds of dust and smoke, a shine cascading across and falling all over my guitar; the night I played a few chords and sung the lines which first popped into my mind. The reason I was troubled, was a certain person—my father. After separating from my mother, my father chose a different life for himself. He was abusive before and after they divorced, he cared very little about me either way it didn't matter to me who got my custody. But for a five year old to witness such a horrible experience, it was unlikely of me to ever be normal.

      My father wanted me to work for him, work for his company he built with hard work and booze—no dedication, if the man was ever dedicated to something, it'd be alcohol. I was starting to believe, alcoholism runs in our family. First my dad, then my mom, and now me. I hated my father for all he's done in my past, all the suffering he's given to my mother. He deserves to be alone and treated the same way as he did with me. I could proudly say I have no father.

      Reminiscing always gets me in a foul mood, it disperses deep and spreads out in waves over my soul, traps me in a dark labyrinth of scourge. Amidst the chaos and dark, I see a light at the end of it, and it's always you, Saeyan. You're like a North Star to me. I let the morning drag on, spending the time mostly drafting my book and reading. The same doleful night dawned over the window, reminding me of the time I spent with you at the cafe. I walked through the street to get through to you; exhilarated by the thought of seeing your face. Although, I brought my guitar with me, strapped it to my back while leaving my apartment.

      Things go as usual, I give you my order, you smile at me and I go sit by the window booth. You brought my order to me, gazing curiously at the guitar I had gotten out of the case. You were observant, eyeing the twee butterfly I had painted below the bridge. I showed off my skills on the guitar, fretted my fingers with the strings to produce a sound. You were lost, listening to it and I gestured you to sit in front of me.

      I sang you my song, the one I wrote before the day I graduated—the same one laced with agony and despair. I hadn't realised I had an audience, the couple sitting a few spaces away applauded me when I ended the song. I didn't care about them, all I cared about was you, marvelling at me, moonstruck eyes twinkling with affection.

      You hanged back, and spoke certain words to me, "do you ever wonder if it really gets better or do we get used to it?"

      "Sometimes it gets better, sometimes it doesn't. So you're compelled to get used to it." I remember saying it to you, but couldn't really convince you otherwise.

      You countered with your thoughts, retorted with something about hope. And I smiled, "hope is a bewildering feeling. If you get too used to it, you try seeking it in every situation even when there isn't."

      At that time I knew, you were different. Just something about you made me fall in love with you, even deeper and wilder. My heart was trying to compose itself from your voice, when you suddenly uttered my name, frustrated and irked because I was being a pertinacious fool.

       I couldn't bear being around you anymore; affected by the way you had enunciated my name in your delicate voice. It shattered a part of me, knowing I won't be here forever to listen to you say my name. I wish I could. I really do. When I walked out, with the guitar on my back, I suddenly realised: I let the coffee get cold again.