I love guitars.
I love books.
I don’t play guitar as much, or read as many books as I would like—but that it even more special when I do. I truly savor those times.
When I play—and it’s good—it’s like worlds far away. It’s a story of fantasy where everything in life is good. Even when it hurts. Time stands still in that “speeded up, slow-motion” sort of way. You feel the notes and chords inside you.
Books take you where only minds can go too. You make the stories your own by the way you see words inside your imagination. Words like notes.
That’s why I want rooms full of books and guitars. I just want to have them near me for when they are needed. For safety. For transport. To live more fully and feel more deeply.
Every time you pick up a guitar, it tells you a little bit of a story. It tells you of its history and its life. It helps you tell your own story—every chapter a little different from the one before and the one after. Sometimes you play a passage over and over again, just to feel the way it moves your imagination.
Subtle, joyful, bittersweet. In a way only you can understand.
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