Freedom rained from his guitar

Have you ever sat in a familiar place and felt totally lost, yet home? Wondering where your next meal would come from? Been soaked to the skin yet the shivers held at bay by the warmth of your convictions? Watched people pass you by as if you were invisible?

Have you ever made a choice that sent icy doubts coursing through your veins, and yet known it was the one you just had to make? Have you ever overcome the cravings of your lost dream and courageously taken it back, no matter the cost? I knew a man who did, his name was Peter and this is his story ... 

Shaking his head, Peter sat momentarily on the precipice of despair. Hard as he tried, he could not quieten the questions and inner chatter frantically bouncing like a squash ball against the racquet in his mind. It had been a harsh night. Not many ventured out in this bleak weather and, for the first time, Peter was questioning his decision to leave behind the comfort of a warm bed, a hot meal and the body heat of his partner of twenty years.

She was a fine woman in many ways but, as he had risen the corporate ladder, her ever-increasing, and seemingly unquenchable, thirst for all "things" bright and shiny had become more noticeable. Blinking through a slowly raising curtain of tears, he remembered the dream they had given birth to together when they were young, until the erosion started as money had become the defining factor in their marriage. His passionate love of music a constant source of angst to her, time spent with his beloved guitar annoying. She had told him in no uncertain terms that his music was merely time wasted that could be better spent entertaining the influential in the pursuit of "more". Peter shuddered at the visual of her speaking and he relived every moment when he felt himself dying a little inside at the sound of her demands.

He had to leave, he couldn't breathe, this he knew. Then why did he still miss the curve of her body, her warm breath against his skin, the softness of what had become a rare kiss. When had she changed? Or had she? Surely the memories of their teenage and young adult lives, filled with laughter and promise, continuous flirting, love, adventure and each other were as real as the chill that was biting fiercely through his somewhat inadequate jacket. Drifting off into a dream, Peter was startled back to reality as the rain lashed against his weary face and suddenly he wept like a scorned child for what could have been.

It seemed like an eternity had passed when the rattle of a sole coin in the tin at his feet broke his trance-like state. The rain easing a little it seemed people had ventured out into the wintery night after all; some appeared embarrassed averting their eyes trying not to make eye contact, others merely looked pityingly upon this creature of the street, toes tapping through shoes with more holes than thread; his bedraggled hair hanging in long ringlets from a hat that wore residual raindrops like jewellery, and yet they could not help but be entranced at the way his fingers were strumming almost sensually along the fine curves of his treasured Fender.

As he played, Peter's thoughts strayed back to when the notes had felt strangled, as if they were the ones struggling to release themselves from the bonds of Corporate life and a suffocating union at home; but on a night when others forced their fingers deep into warm pockets, the notes ran off Peter's fingers like tiny ants on a mission of the gravest and utmost importance, scurrying endlessly and effortlessly along the strings.

Strangers didn't understand, how could they? How could anyone understand the feeling of a constricted chest bursting open like a cage door releasing the crying inner bird; the bird so many had assumed was singing when in reality it was a cry for freedom, a plea of desperation and a trill of frustration. Peter had lived in the world these strangers loved; he had been the image, held the career, owned the toys others longed for. He had been the envy of friends, family and colleagues. In their eyes, he had it all. And then, in one explosive moment, Peter had torn himself away - walking toward who knows where - leaving his cage with no explanation; one was not necessary, no-one would have listened anyway.

Lost in song, Peter closed his eyes, caressed his guitar and a smiled filled his eyes and crept across his already younger looking face. He was amused at the perception others held that his world was one of poverty and loneliness. Little did they know. Loneliness was his past life; it was in the big house with the greedy wife and the false friends. And Peter had left that behind.

Sitting cross legged on a plastic sheet set upon a rain soaked path, lyrics dancing freely, music hanging in the air, Peter breathed slowly, deeply and peacefully, grateful for the freedom and love that rained from his guitar.

(c) Dianne Traynor - Scribblings of a Scattered Mind