Monday, June 4, 2012

Next Week

Things are often harder then they seem, according to Dad. I had no real experience with this, as for most of my life I had no difficulty learning things or accomplishing tasks, and I had often felt contempt and annoyance with my peers who couldn't figure something out.

Basically, I wanted to learn how to play guitar. The clarinet was easy enough, so I felt like the guitar would be no trouble at all. We bought one off the internet, and got some method books from the library. I was eager to get started, and impatient to learn.

The first day, I played for about fifteen minutes before I couldn't take it anymore. The second day, I had bandaids wrapped around my fingers. The third, there were no more bandaids, so I just taped some tissues around the fingers that hurt the most. The fourth day, it actually wasn't so bad. I started to see some callouses on my hands.

A few weeks later, my dad got me a new guitar book which had a different approach. Rather than teaching chords, it taught individual notes. They didn't make my fingers hurt so much.

Throughout the summer, I enjoyed relatively relaxed days, and plenty of time to pursue my musical and artistic whims. Then, fall came. Like the leaves on the trees, my free time was quickly disappearing. Between swimming, middle school, Chinese school, art lessons, fencing, clarinet, and sleeping, there wasn't much time for leisure.

The practicing went from half an hour a day to half an hour a week to fifteen minutes a week to none at all. The ambition of learning something new was slipping away as I tried desperately to simply keep up.

"I'll get back to it," I promised myself, "next week for sure."

"Next week for sure."

"Next week for sure."

One November morning, a huge, messy pile of stuff was on my desk (so much for my resolution to be organized). As I started to pick through it, I mused, "This pile of papers and books. They're all priorities. And it never gets cleaned up, because more and more things just get piled on. My guitar dream, that's at the bottom of the pile. It only exists when everything else has been cleared."

With a sigh, I came clean with myself. I quit. It wasn't the first thing in my life that I didn't live up to my own expectations. And each time, I had promised myself, "It won't happen again. I'll make a change."

The guitar is still in its case, leaning against the wall next to the desk-pile. Perhaps it'll fit in my arms better now, since I've grown? Perhaps the metallic strings won't hurt my fingers anymore, which have been toughened by a crescendo of household tasks and responsibilities.

Perhaps next week.

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Random ascii house... (not part of story)

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