Do not forget the music

I am standing here. I have been standing in the same place for quite a long time now, but what do I know? I do not need to keep track of time; even if I did, even if the life that I do not have depended on it, I could not do it. I lay against a huge sound amplifier, dreamlike -  just like the ones rock stars use, bigger than anything I could have dreamed of, for I was already resigned to live forever in a dark corner embraced by dust and shadows. I was not made for enormous stardom, like others who are ironically my exact equal, I am disregarded by the masses but at least I keep my individuality.

I am not quite myself anymore, I have been abandoned, condemned to being forever overlooked, ignored, unnoticed, unseen like the great things of life that you do not appreciate until you loose. Most of my strings are broken and I can chant no more, the rest of me rusts and perishes in dreadful silence and solitude, surrounded by damp air that smells lifeless, and contributes to the doom in which I sink into.

I am encircled by music and all sort of sounds: harmonious, disastrous, soft, loud; but none like the sounds I used to produce, none like the magic that echoed my strings, none like riffs my companion used to reproduce. There is nothing like chords newly learned, nothing so beautiful in its terror of being fresh, absolutely nothing like a children’s first notes, first distorted melodies product of hope and dreams of stardom and rock n’ roll fame.

The she sits about ten feet away from me, noticing my presence for the first time in months, considering to play me for the first time in years, and proceeding to ignore me for the billionth time today. She chooses writes about me, instead of anything else around her. She thinks she knows what I am thinking. For a second too long she dares to consider I can think, speak inside the mind that I do not have, feel sorry for myself and my unaccomplished goals and stare into her as she writes.

I cannot do anything for myself, I cannot do anything for others, and in fact I cannot do anything at all while I lay here. If there is anything in this world that I can do is wish and wait; wish that she someday remembers the first time she got me, the first time she played me, slept by me, broke me, fixed me, broke me and fixed me over and over again, the first time she plugged me to the enormous amplifier that now sleeps behind me and then forever wait until she has time for me again, and grabs me, cleans me, fixes me and once again plays me, gives me voice, lets me sound, allows me sing, to scream, to make noise, to cry: I would do anything she wants me to.

But I do not keep my hopes too up high, I know how to lose and even if I do not aim for it I can take failure. In my case the limit is set way below the sky, which I have clearly never seen or experienced. Like I said before there is nothing to do but wish and wait, and I might as well do nothing and have the same results; but life would be too boring without something to do, even if that something is just sheltering a little piece of hope. And even if I rest at the opposite ends of glory, even if I am completely and forever forgotten, muted: I rest in peace.