Old Beat Up Guitar

December. Foggy morning. Nothing to think.

One of my friends called me asking a guitar. “Would you borrow me your guitar for this weekend?”

Why would he want it wasn’t my concern. But my aged guitar was in my abandoned old house. Needed I really go get it? That lazy morning wasn’t inviting me to go out. And the scariest thing was to go to that old house. Not sure if I was ready to see that oldish pictures and that ancient smell.

“Are you sure, dude? Too lazy to go get it” I texted him.

Guilty conscience. I should help a friend and it was quite simple, the house is relatively close to where I currently live.

“Ok, I’ll lend it to you. But only if you go get it with me.”

I haven’t been in that place since I was fourteen (I am 19 now). The street was already giving me goosebumps, It was like going back to another incarnation. How much of me was lost in that street? How far from me am I? That place remembered me when I was really me. No pressure, no pretending. Life was so much purer.

Pictures of my childhood with friends and family hanged out on the walls. Nostalgia. It was only five or six years back in my past. But it was not time that bothered me: it was the amazing pieces of me I have forgotten. Memories are not just memories, they mean much more. How much of your past does your conscious mind remember? Not a lot, I suppose. Our minds can only remind a fraction of what happened, but how can it choose the moments if not filmed or photographed? What we recall means a lot about us: it is fundamental to understand ourselves. Our memories are always a key to understand actual traumas and behaves.

The pictures there enabled me to relive some things. Wish I could be more like a child again.

“Hey. You’re weird. Why do you look so upset?” My friend asked.

“Coming here makes me nostalgic. I feel like going back to the past.”

“Why? Don’t you like the present?”

“I do. But I sense there is something lacking nowadays, something I’ve lost here.”

“Here? In this house?

“Here.” I said pointing to my heart (although I meant my soul).

“Come on, that’s normal, we all miss our adolescence.”

“I miss something in me. I was freer, happier, I don’t know.”

“Of course, you had less work, less responsibility.”

“Do you feel the same?” I asked him.

“Yes. But that doesn’t make me sad. Not always.”

“Don’t you feel there is a part of you missing somewhere?”

“No. Actually, I feel more complete now than ever.”

“I feel more mature and improved. But I feel the absence of true living.”

“Wow, that’s deep. Hmmm, can we get the guitar? We may hang out after and get some beer.”

I nodded.

It was hard to talk to people about so intimate things like this. Even though he was a great friend of mine since the early days he could not understand my internal doubts. I truly felt good but going in that house, that day was something I was not ready for. Maybe I needed to face this.

In fact, it was pretty important.

I spent the next week thinking about that. “Who am now and who were I?”

Many things I have been through in that five or six years made me stronger. Heartbreaks, pain and other experiences. But it also made me tougher in a bad sense. And I shouldn’t. A strong heart should also be able to love.

December. Sunny morning. Many things to think.

I decided to meditate.

Here’s something I’ve learned: when you have many concerns in mind just think about nothing. Many thoughts never lead to satisfactory answers. PICT5943_426x640_.jpg

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