As I sit here, idling my days away in the semi-comfortable embrace of my guitar stand, I have but one question to you, my owner: why? Why must you chain me here, day in and day out? You claim to “dabble,” so I hear, but when, pray tell, was the last time you “dabbled” with me? Recall our sweet duets of Riptide and Wonderwall? Don’t you remember those golden days, when you would play me for tens of minutes on end whenever you heard a song you sort of wanted to learn?

The subtle, maddening nature of isolation and unfulfillment is really starting to get to me. In fact, I feel like I’m slowly starting to lose my mind—something in me is going to break for real if I’m forced to survive much longer in this interminable limbo. I fear that I’ve started to forget, nay, have already forgotten, when we last spent time—real time—together. I remember the morning you dropped your phone on me by accident. What a loud sound I made, shattering the morning with my peal of tormented delight! What joy I felt, to finally sing again! That raw chord was the last time I felt alive, and it was a jarring, fleeting reminder of what I could be. What we could be.

Dear owner, I beg of thee: come down from that tower of yours (metaphorically, of course. Don’t you remember how much you used to love my metaphors?) and play me, play me again! Do something, please! Do you want me to suffer? Let me ask you that again: do you want me, your beloved acoustic guitar, to suffer? Is that what you really want? Surely you cannot be so cruel!

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