None Of It Matters Poem by Nina Bej

How can a bittersweet melody be so beautiful?
Perhaps because everyone can relate.
How can a tune that brings back memories of anguish,
One that I've lost touch with,
Find its way into my heart?
It's no comforting lullaby, no hard rock you can lose yourself in.
It's nothing you can vent your anger on, nothing that gives you confidence, nothing that is inspirational or makes you feel better about yourself.
Yet here I am with a guitar in my hands.
It's hard for me to believe it's mine.
It's still out of tune. I don’t think it will ever be tuned properly.
I tell myself reluctantly that none of it matters.
It never did matter.
It never will matter.
Can't I just go back to the way I used to be?
I feel the hard, cold edge digging into my thigh.
I try to ignore it.
I quietly take the pick, feeling its familiar smoothness between my fingers.
Carefully, I touch it to the first string, not sure exactly what I'll hear.
It sounded like… like… childhood.
Childhood and summer.
The invigorating smell of a freshly mowed lawn.
Birds chirping at 4: 30 in the morning.
The sun's rays slanted across the landscape at dawn…
That wonderful feeling, like you're the only person in the world.
That's what that note sounded like. Memories.
But I didn't realize any of that then.
I shrugged and touched the pick to the next string, and the next, and the next…
Until the pick had hit all six strings.
I placed my hand over the strings to quiet the guitar;
Gradually, I moved the fingers of my left hand to form a chord.
I gripped my pick resolutely and strummed.
And suddenly all the songs came back to me. All the songs I wrote, so long ago…
or rather, what seemed like so long ago…
And all the emotions that created them.
I switched from chord to chord, occasionally strumming only one note,
But soon enough I didn't even stop to do that.
I felt chills scurry down my spine, and my hands were sweaty from playing so hard.
And then none of it mattered—pressure, school, homework, friends, family… it was only me and my beloved instrument, and the music it—we—produced.
Even when I hit a wrong note, it sounded as if it were supposed to sound a little off like that.
I was playing faster and faster, more and more excitedly, and I had long since stopped playing each note with perfect articulation—
Instead my pick skimmed over the strings as if I'd practiced these songs a hundred times.
I never wanted to stop.
I felt so
Rushed,
Excited,
Heart Racing,
Pulse Pounding,
Energetic and Eager and all the Things I'd stopped being.
And then the music gradually faded away. I let it.
I felt like I had all the time in the world.
I wasn't rushed anymore.
I was rediscovering the music; I was rediscovering myself.
More songs would be recovered from the depths of my memories tomorrow.
I had something to look forward to now.
I don't know how I became the old me again,
But I was glad to be me and not another masked, unidentified movement in the crowd.
My guitar set me apart—
And even though no one saw me playing it,
And I told hardly anyone,
I felt like I was my own person again. Not a blend of a hundred other people.
As I lay my guitar gently against the corner in the wall,
I noticed a red mark on my leg from the imprint of the edge of the guitar.
I just laughed at myself
And, not even embarrassed, realized the person I'd been half an hour ago
Really wasn't me.
None of it matters, in the end.
It never did.
It never will.
And, best of all, it doesn't now.