A small scraping noise of metal on metal as the plug is shoved into the Strat. A familiar, satisfying popping of the amp’s tubes as it turns on, the hum which accompanies it. Calloused fingertips twist the knobs into the appropriate settings, setting which were discovered years ago to have the best tone, the right sound. That was the most difficult experience of learning to play. Getting just the right tone turned out to be absolutely essential to playing; a bad tone completely fucked up everything. That was years ago. I got it now. The guitar is a part of me. I have something to say; the guitar says it for me. I got something to say now. The chord is struck; the first words of the message, my message, are written.
A small syringe, filled with a brown liquid, sits in my hand. Calloused fingers tap it; the bubbles inside dissipate. The tip of the needle hovers above scarred flesh, searching for a vein much as a wasp searches for a place to sting. A small, sharp bite as it penetrates. The plunger is depressed; the brown liquid rushes into my bloodstream. Calm and euphoria wash over me in waves. The world slowly fades. Getting in touch with myself, my feelings, and the world drains me; I hate being alert and aware of it all. I said what I needed to say; all that was left was to actually record it, and grin and bear it while the producer and record execs rape my words, my message, turn it into something marketable, something they can profit from. It sickens me. I’m helpless to it. Now, I am numb. A perfect counterbalance to my earlier awakeness. The yin needs its yang. All; well.
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