Ode to the Fender Telecaster

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Tucked in the corner of my bedroom, you sit on your once-majestic throne. Dust has become your blanket, and shadows surround you, but I remember all the things you used to represent, the red and chrome glory; you used to gleam. Not a sight in the world was as comforting as you. You used to sing with me in times of need, you used to scream with me in times of anguish, you used to laugh with me in times of bliss; your voice came to comfort me no matter what my mood. It could pierce my very soul. We sang David Bowie, The Pixies, and Led Zeppelin together. We labored over tedious exercises and repetitive chord progressions again and again until we could have performed them in our sleep. I can remember long hours dancing across the fret board, weaving notes into melodies. My hands still know the cutting bite of your steel strings into my calloused fingertips. I used to seek you out every day: you were an extension to my arm, a comforting shoulder when I had nothing else. You were the silent friend that heard every emotion of mine, and you helped me transform that energy into something new, something unique. I became dependent on your unwavering support, for you were once my foundation in a less than stable period of my life. So why did I move on and leave you behind? I didn’t do it on purpose, really -- my life just swept off into different directions, leaving you alone on your black throne to reminisce about the glory days, the dreams we had once hoped to achieve. Maybe you still stand in front of that imaginary audience, blinded by the harsh spotlights, waiting for me to join you on stage.

Now, years later, my gaze happens to fall upon the corner where you just hide quietly, your voice muffled by the chaos of my cluttered room. I regret to admit that I do not hear your voice, your silent whisperings to me anymore. No longer are you my muse, but I also regret not telling you how times have changed. I wish sometimes that we still were friends. Often I wonder what you must feel about all of this, but I never remember to ask you. Do you still sing when I’m not around? Or have you fallen out of tune? My hand reaches out and I wipe some of the dust off, leaving behind a gleaming streak of red. Even after all my neglect, all of my abuse, would you still be my friend?





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