While My Guitar Gently Weeps

Dear guitar,

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not having kept my promise. I'm sorry for letting those dust layers grow upon you. I'm sorry for letting your strings rust. I'm sorry, for not keeping my promise.

You see, a few years back, I was just a kid, who had gone through a heartache. The only plausible way to keep my mind in place was to blast Jimi Hendrix and David Gilmour into my brain with those in-ear headphones, all day long. And I wanted to be like them, a great man, if not good. You know I tattooed upon my pencil box, "Make her happy. Make me great."

I remember how I shouted for two hours straight to get my dad take me to Braganza's. I had no money back then, and today, I earn my own dough. But since that day, for years, boy did we spend some time together! It was coming back from schools and exercising scales, and those let nights when romance comes to haunt you, you helped through the darkest hours, when the only sounds were the random strays on the road, the ticking of my analogue wall clock, and an instructor's voice about the mood of the Mixolydian on Youtube.

We went upon stages together, at different places and under different circumstances. Be it with the smoke machines filling us up with divinity, or the empty glasses of whiskey crying for a refill at an empty bar, it felt nice with you. It felt comfortable. It felt perfect.

You made me. You made me look beyond the daily wage and the grocery essentials. When my friends were running into the machine, you held me back, put your lips to my ear and whispered, "Don't." And I did. I did.

Then I grew up from that school kid who dreamt to be up on the same stage with the Slowhand, to a bigger kid who got into a good University. And then, life happened, priorities changed. It was late until I realized that running away from the machine in itself, is a machine. I spent more hours away from home, where I left you alone. And when the dream snapped, I could hear the machine churning me into the shape it wants.

Maybe it's too late, maybe it's not. I don't know. But I can promise you, I'll try. I will try to live the life we both promised each other. Just give back some time to get back home. I'm too far away. Till then, be there for me. Cheers.

Yours lovingly,

Once-a-guitarist.