We all tire of our greatest loves. We get caught up in the flash of excitement, and we begin to believe in something real, something true, something meaningful, something lasting. But sooner or later, the magic disappears, and we convince ourselves that our hopes and dreams are just that, hopes and dreams. We fall for the illusion, and the illusion falls apart.

 

Is that right?

 

Only a few hours of my Sunday evening remained. A guitar pushed against my chest. Someone on a moped buzzed by the old brick building. The air conditioner roared and the orange roses at my desk smelled sickly from the heat. My roommates chatted in the living room with the television running in the background.

 

My fingernails grazed the metallic strands. The polished exterior reflected the sunlight passing through the window blinds, and the light revealed smudges from occasional use. I could feel the callouses throbbing in the extremities of my other hand, as my fingers pressed down on a few strings firmly — as firmly as I could, anyway. I struggled to transition from strumming an F chord to a C sharp chord, pausing awkwardly between the lyrics, "Oh no, not me / I never lost control." Sighing, I completed the chorus with a few more of the F and C sharp strums, finishing with the A chord, "You're face to face / With the man who sold the world."

 

I found my thighs clapped to the back of the guitar as I tried to set the thing down on my bed. I threw my head back against a pillow and thought about the first time I heard "The Man Who Sold The World" as a performance by Nirvana (originally released by David Bowie). I sensed some despair, and some emptiness, that seemed unbeknownst to the drums, and perhaps even eluded the guitars and the bass, that would resonate with someone who felt lost, who I imagined with glazed eyes. Kurt Cobain delivered the words in a coarse but subdued voice, his sweatered arm casually draped over a guitar, his blonde hair draped over his eyebrows, and what I took as melancholy draped over his face.

 

I, too, found myself trapped in despondency. But my dejection derived from the sluggish progress of my musical abilities, and not from the anguish of literally selling one's soul.

 

The first time I listened to "The Man Who Sold The World," I understood and even related to the detachment, the longing, and the confusion of experiencing these conflicting emotions simultaneously. I turned my head to view the guitar from the side and played with one of its strings. I had witnessed the melodies break down into individual notes and the lyrics collapse into individual syllables. The tedious repetition of the whole mess repulsed me. How could this short session suffice to achieve my goal, anyway?

 

At some point, the sun had set. My iPad cast a whiteish glow across my features as I scrolled through some other songs, searching for easier chords and strum patterns that I had already learned. And then I played them, superficially, until they bored me, which didn't take that long — I often didn't get through the second chorus. The guitar became a dark mass in my arms as I tumbled into the potential of each new song. This one seems to suit my voice, but this other one is even easier to strum. What if I recorded myself performing this one?

 

I started to play one of my favorite songs, "American Pie" by Don McLean. Most people know the words, so it's a great party trick, especially for a feel-good sing-along. "Something touched me deep inside / The day the music died / So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie / Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry," the words came out, and so did the chords, the C, D, and G chords –– muscle memory. I learned those chords more than ten years ago.

 

Teenage chords for a song that reminded me of my teenage days.

 

Teenage angst, teenage regrets. I sang about selling out, and I sang about the day the music died. I didn't make time to practice because I "had to work" and the music died because I couldn't get past the F chord. Clumsy fingerwork and an underdeveloped voice — this is all that was leftover from the highs of singing and strumming the works of the musicians I revered, for years and years and years, but only once in a blue moon. Are we all cursed to chase euphoria, ad infinitum?

 

I returned to "The Man Who Sold The World," unable to fathom that I had not advanced beyond my teenage chords. Another song that I loved since my school days, "The Man Who Sold The World" had always been too difficult for me to have ever performed well. But that evening, I uncharacteristically decided to focus on the most painful chord transitions and the most uncomfortable finger positions, sacrificing the last bits of my Sunday.

 

A few months passed.

 

On another Sunday, the clouds ensheathed the sun, bestowing a haze upon my bedroom. The chilly afternoon air whistled through my windows. I had been gifted some pink carnations that were now dried and wilted at my desk, and crumbling leaves disintegrated at the base of the glass vase. An hour ago, I had picked up my guitar to rehearse the song "Magic" by Coldplay. The red nail paint on my fingernails had chipped but the nails themselves were neatly trimmed. I sang softly: "And I just got broken / Broken into two / Still I call it magic / When I'm next to you." I tested each string for a muted note.

 

Beside me, steam wafted up from a cup of chai. I absentmindedly lifted it by the handle and took a sip, and the tea burned my tongue before I could swallow. I took a breath, brushed my hands through my hair and arranged it behind my ears, and then reached for the guitar. I continued: "And if you were to ask me / After all that we've been through / Still believe in magic? / Yes, I do."

 

The screen of my phone lit up with the name of my close friend. After a few rings, the notification updated to "missed call." I unlocked the phone to text her that I would return her call later. Guitar still in hand, without thinking, I opened Instagram and tapped through a few stories, a few posts, a few memes, and then several videos.

 

Another notification, my friend replied: "Cool, np. I was driving. What're you up to?"

 

"Just playing my guitar. Still suck though lol."

 

"You never sucked!" And then she added, "Aw, I wish we could play together."

 

I placed the phone onto the carpet, face-down. I certainly wished that too. Maybe then, we could rehearse to perform live, just like we'd always wanted –– at a little cafe, at a student showcase, at a friend's wedding, something, somewhere, anything, anywhere. She was much better at the guitar than I was. But even if she lived here in the city, the thought of performing live still felt like a far-fetched fantasy. We had work tomorrow. The digital clock next to my bed told me that it was now 3:03 pm, but it was only a few minutes past noon for my friend in Los Angeles. She had so many possibilities to explore before the reality of Monday would wash over like an oversized beach wave. That was another thing I missed about California –– the beaches and all of the music about the beaches. I played Lana Del Rey: "Down on the West Coast, I get this feeling like / It all could happen, that's why I'm leaving / You for the moment / You for the moment, Boy Blue, yeah you." And then I sang Cage the Elephant: "Cigarette daydream / You were only seventeen /... You can drive all night / Looking for the answers in the pourin' rain."

 

I hadn't recorded the previous song that I'd been working on, but I could now play it through.