Dusting in a corner, the rusted strings no longer play a harmonic tune and the dents grow more visible as the light hits the brown, scratched wood. When my hands slightly brush the rough strings, you can hear an eerie discord as if they grew tired and bitter from creating music together. It seemed smaller in size and lighter in color, but to me part of it still looked the same. It still appeared the same from seven years ago when it was packaged in a big box that was delivered to my door step.

A birthday present from my aunt, who had just gifted me with the most exciting possession a seventh grader like me could have. The strings had never been played and the exterior was shiny and new. Looking into that box was like looking into a mirror; reflecting someone who I’d yet to become. I soon avoided mimicking the basic strum patterns that my mom taught me, and developed my own technique that demanded all my time and attention, leaving me with nothing but calloused fingers and red stinging imprints from the guitar pressed onto my leg. Every night, the homework in front of me became a blur, getting up at ten o’clock in the morning on the weekends became seven o’clock and all I saw was my guitar in that corner. I became fixated on how it felt to hold and play the guitar; my left hand sliding up and down from the first fret to the third fret, playing the F chord then transitioning to the G chord. I felt the exhilaration when my right hand strummed the strings which revealed what I didn’t know I was looking for. The guitar in the corner had become something I loved, but it was something I had to leave behind. It wasn’t a decision made lightly, it wasn’t a decision that I even knew I was going to make.

As the days went by, the longer I played for, the more the nylon strings started to sound like they were congested, the neck of the guitar became painful to hold and the shine of the exterior had faded. My homework became my priority again, I stayed wrapped in my comforters until ten o’clock and it was as if my guitar in the corner was no longer visible.

I may have moved on from the guitar, but I never moved on from how it changed me. At that point, all I longed for was a different feel, a different sound, something new. I longed for a different shape, six steel strings, a different sound and a new shiny exterior.