While My Guitar Gently Weeps

As I sit here fondling the Les Paul guitar doodle on the Google homepage with my mouse pointer, I am instantly reminded of the real guitar I have lying around in my room. It’s a two year old Givson acoustic that was once a gift from three of my friends. After four years of college was wasted without learning anything of value that I didn't already know, my friends, who were earning their own money by then, decided to make an extravagant contribution towards their pursuit of my happiness. It was a birthday gift, something I had wanted for a long time but couldn't gather enough courage to make such a large investment in one of my whims. I was well aware of my dubious fancies and how I would be obsessed with something one day and want nothing to do with the next. I knew then that letting them buy it for me was a big risk. Not only would I have my own expectations, of learning how to play the damned thing to fulfill, those dear friends of mine would be looking at me with their scornful eyes if I failed to learn a single chord in two years.

I failed to learn a single chord in two years.

I'd like to think that I gave it a try in the beginning. I had already decided that I wouldn't take classes. I'd learn it myself from practice, diligence and good ol' hard work. I wouldn't even use a pick; fingerstyle is how a guitar is supposed to be played. Just your fingers and the instrument, that's the way it should be. I used to come home from office and bring out my brand new guitar and sit in front of the computer, looking at YouTube videos and trying to play the easy chords. I ended up being able to play a near passable version of the first 15 seconds of Pretty Woman. I didn't try much after that. I let other things take higher priorities in life. I had no time for the old guitar any more. So it lay there in its cover, its strings slowly losing their tension, its wood that once smelled heavenly slowly losing its fragrance, expanding in the next summer, retaining water from the air when the rains came, contracting in the winter.

One fine day, when I had nothing else to do, I brought it out once again and fiddled with it for a bit. It was no surprise that I had forgotten everything, even how to hold the thing itself. In my chagrined state of mind, I strummed the strings a little too heavily and the G-string broke in my hand, almost hitting my right eye. Glad that I had barely avoided losing depth perception, I decided to placate my vengeful guitar by getting it some new strings. Some research, shopping, clamoring, fiddling with the old metronome and frustration filled hours later, I managed to get it all together, tuned to the low E, ready to belt out covers upon covers.

And then I slept.

While my guitar gently wept.