Here I am, standing before a sea of shadowed faces, faces of kids shorter than I, younger than I, and older than I. Not only children, but teachers and adults as well! It doesn’t really matter though, they are all there, and their eyes are on me. The stage has never seemed so empty. The lights have never seemed so strong. I have stood on this stage so many, many times before, and I swear it has never been this big, and bright, and empty.

This guitar is not mine; it belongs to my dad, along with the embroidered guitar strap. The yellow, brown and red zigzags are a hypnotic pattern that bring me back to being three-years-old and watching my daddy play with the band in the garage. I hope some of my daddy’s talent sinks into my fingers now. The bottom of the guitar rests in the middle of my thighs. The guitar is massive.

My fingers are trembling. I close my right hand into a fist and dig my nails deep into my palm to settle the adrenaline. I have played this song deep into the night every night for the past two weeks. I wrote this song myself and I put every fiber of my being into this song. This passion that I have for music is indescribable. I perform in front of this grand audience and rely on them to tell me if my passion is represented with talent or mediocrity. I understand in every professional standard the song is mediocre, but how does it sound to the ears of an unknowledgeable listener?

I take a deep breath. Once I start, there is no turning back. Almost without my controlling it, the notes began to ring through the gymnasium one at a time. They sound clear; they flow like a river’s current. I lean over the microphone and I begin to sing and strum. Time is stuck in a strange limbo where it is stopped, but moving at the same time. It moves in measures, in notes, in chords, not in seconds or minutes.

Finally, I approach the conclusion of the song. I strum the last chord as crisply as I have a million times before, while I lean over the microphone and sing the last repetition of the chorus. My voice, and my voice only, fills the gymnasium. Then it ends, and all the shadowy faces roar. I am shaking and catching my breath; I hustle off the hot, bright, vast stage. I am ecstatic. I just played my song the best I have ever played it. I am nervous, but I am ecstatic. I feel pride, accomplishment, inconceivable excitement.

I am showered with compliments as I walk down the hallway. All of these shadowy faces are brought into light, and they all like my song. I could not be more overjoyed. Not only am I overjoyed with this one song, this one afternoon, but I am also inspired.

Music is one of those things that I love so much; it hurts in the very pit of my stomach, like a lump in my throat. There is so much passion that it could flow from my soul and out of my eyes as tears, out of my mouth as singing, and out of my fingers as strumming. I have not gone many days without playing a guitar since that amazing afternoon, six months ago, on that hot, bright, big stage.

Here I am, sitting on the floor in my room surrounded by empty frigid air. Almost without my control, the notes begin the ring through the blank space. Time is stuck in a strange limbo where it moves in measures, notes and chords, not in minutes or seconds. That’s how I want it to be; filled with the truth of reality and emotion, and free from care of any more of the devastating on-goings in life.