The Musician's Friend

I envy you. When I see you pick up your guitar and strum in ones through fours and ands, when you climb through chords which you weave together in that magical way, setting me off-balance to, on one, stabilize me back at the center, I envy you.

When we were younger, I was told that I had something unique. Something which left the whole world in the palm of my hand.

I was told that I would become something.

I remember that you were nobody worth remembering. Just another kid, firmly situated in the lower-middle rungs of the class, without the talent or ambition to climb any higher.

And yet, now, when I watch you, your fingers flying across the fretboard, and I hear all those thousands of hours of practice come to life, I envy you. You, who was promised nothing, but still arduously carved out their own niche. Me, who was promised everything, and never even bothered to reach their hand out for it. Whose most impressive title is "The Musician's Friend."

I envy you because I know I could never work so hard.