Comfort Zone

The black guitar laying next to a book shelf allured me.

It was untouched and out of tune. It’s dusty too.

I don’t know how to play it, but I have it at my home.

It is ridiculous.

I wanted to break it into a million pieces.

There were people around me and I didn’t want to be judged by my behaviour.

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Why should I even break the guitar?

For freedom?

To calm myself down?

No. I can’t break my guitar and regret later.

The anger inside me doesn’t want to stay.

I can’t deal with melancholia either.

The guitar is in my hand.

I try to play something with a finger and I wish that I knew how to play it.

It happens every time I have a guitar in my hand.

I lay on my bed and close my eyes.

I can still feel the temperature on my face.

I’m inside a nebula. It’s all cloudy, but it sure is beautiful.

It feels like I’m in a comfort zone.

I’ll continue to live here until things get better outside.

There are no windows here. There are no doors either.

It’s an endless city of clouds.

Maybe there’s an invisible shoulder for one to cry upon if anyone wishes to.