The First Four Letters of Harmony

Rage

Sometimes the song just won’t do. The lyrics you wrote in rage, the ones you’re screaming in a manner that feels like you might tear your larynx from its moorings,  into a microphone sizzling with your own sweat, sometimes it’s not enough.

And you don’t want to be that douchey, pampered artiste that storms from the stage, but now your guitar is in chunks on that stage, the melody and rhythm unable to contain the twisted ball of agony and anger, coiled into itself and choking you.

I’m backstage now, where everything tangible I could possibly be given is given to me, with eager eyes waiting to provide more.

The whiskey is too warm and the beer is too cold and ineffective.

The music was, and is a lifeline, a reason for being, for breathing, but sometimes the smoke of life in a smokeless room is too much.

When I fell into the sofa I could have kept falling, but the springs and upholstery caught me, with a strange shriek and painful creak, as though the sofa was more alive than me.

Any kid in the front row would have loved to have had that guitar, I should have bent and handed it to one of them, but they probably would have torn themselves to pieces trying to claim it.

Tomorrow night I’ll try again, with a new guitar, and the same oozing wounds.

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Photo by Thiago Barletta on Unsplash