-takes a deep breath and starts to type-

Emptiness, melancholy, sadness yet somewhat satisfied, hanging around, strummung the guitar practicing chords 'till your fingers get sore from the fresh, stiff strings. The amateur fingers still soft, calluses unformed. Playing the same 4 chords over and over, attempting to quicken the transition between E minor, C, G, D. Playing it with different self-experimented strumming patterns, with two different picks, and his uncallused thumb, struming backwards with this thumbnail to create some sort of an echo.

As he tried his best to do so, his mind wandered, to his past, present and his possible future. The possible consequences of his every action, how it would affect possible aspects of his future. His thoughts distracted him, as the pick slipped past his fingers and right into the gaping hole of the guitar's main body, as the strings echoed the mis-played chord into that very same hole.

"Fuck."

He sighed, as he turned the guitar over, shaking it and moving it in various positions to get the pick out. By the time he did, the pain in his fingers had fully surfaced, and he put the guitar to rest for the day, laying it against his TV, noticing his red finger tips and the impressions the strings had made upon them, wondering when the calluses would appear.

He sat on his bed, leaning on the rough wall, as he looked upon his laptop.


The various programs, clients he had on. The people on them, or not on them. Not replying to his messages. Did he do anything wrong? He would never really know. They wouldn't reply. With some form of guilt welling inside him, he sighed. It was pointless to worry. It wouldn't do anything. Perhaps he would find out some other time.

He had learnt to smile through the disappointment, discomfort or guilt. Sulking did nothing but worsen his mood, negative thoughts welling up. Smiling? Was he lying to himself?

Eh, what else was there to do? Smile and live another day. Its not like the world revolves around him. As he'd always repeat to himself, and others.

"I'm just another man."

Leaving a few messages that he wouldn't be back for two days, hopefully, the person he addresses it to would at least read it.

Shaft, out.