Late Night Thoughts

Loss of Voice and Self

When you grow up a musician, nothing else matters. The soccer games are time away from your instrument. The homework is wasted effort when you could be composing. The songs you hum are yours alone and they're more beautiful than any on the radio.

When you grow up a musician, your family loves your talent. They can show it off and claim you so cultured and bright. A nine year old who can so imperfectly play Greensleeves, then Für Elise, then Cavatina, and then Led Zeppelin, is still better than a nine year old who can't.

When you grow up a musician, you're going to compete whether you like it or not. No matter how much you practice, you'll have someone who will beat you. And so you must practice when you can, so that you'll still be a picture of an artist. To be less than an artist would mean that you're common. Who in the world wants to be common? Not you, the eyes of your agents tell you this while they're masked with pride.

When you grow up a musician, you grow so tired of performing that you cease playing altogether. You play and sing for yourself, but there's no spark anymore. The music left when you did, now you're just making noise.

When your fingers are weak and soft, when your breath can only hold a few bars, when your voice has betrayed you, you are still a musician. The music you love plays on in your soul, but it is trapped there. The choir that you long to join will not hear you. The notes which you once wrote stain the walls in a constant reminder of what you once created but can't anymore.

When you grew up a musician, you were nothing else. Now, you're nothing without it.