i'm just outside.
It's the faint sound of a far-off guitar that is sitting right in a pair of hands, on a lap, in a room. But it's a field too. A field in more need of resurrection than the browned and wilted grass ever required. Chord progressions flow and the strumming pattern manipulated to serve the hands' yearning. The battle rages and the air shakes. Much saltwater is shed, but not from this pair of eyes. It stares blankly at the fretboard looking for another way, one more variation, an extra skipped beat, whatever the pair of ears can grasp wildly and clumsily for in the midst of this war. Faster comes the finger picking, and pity to the fissuring calluses because nothing can hold out a rope for them now. And floating not so high above this head, is a tiny point in space. It watches. All the time. And it watches with such an intensity, not a glare, but quite the obvious stare, that everywhere it looks, it is felt. It never talks. Never shouts. This one mumbles. The kind of mumble one executes when halfheartedly trying to be heard. Not fast enough. So faster fly the fingers. Not clear enough. So the calluses pull themselves together, or at least enough to force themselves into the correct positions. Not loud enough. So harder strike the- No, not play harder, listen harder. So the ears strain to catch the riff and the underlying melody standing around awkwardly until discovered and merged into the beat. Good. Time to take a brea- No. The clamor has dissipated, the area silenced as of some time ago. But the tension. Oh the tension. It singes with anticipation, apprehension, the wait, the want. What else is there anyways? Breathers? It doesn't quite work like that. Do it again. It's the faint sound of a far-off guitar that is sitting right in a pair of hands, on a lap, in a room.