The Tale of the Old Guitar

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The morning sunlight penetrated my bedroom window and shone on my old guitar. The strings were worn out, the body was full of scratches and dents, scars from a long life journey that was sometimes full of emotions. So, today was an important day for me. I was going to join a music competition that I had long dreamed of. However, behind the excitement, doubts haunted me.

I lay on the edge of my bed, staring at the guitar with conflicting feelings. "Am I good enough?" The question echoed in my mind. The echo of the audience's out-of-tune voices, the stinging pain of the taunts, almost stopped me. However, I had sacrificed too much to stop now.

Memories played in my mind like a movie when I closed my eyes. My life had not been a smooth ride. I grew up in a small town in which music was considered irrelevant, which made me feel alienated. Music was my solace, my escape from the reality of life. While others told me I wouldn’t make it, I pressed on, note after note, ho peing that someday the world would hear.

That day I walked into the competition with the old guitar. The hall was sold out, and the spirit of the crowd reverberated into my soul. Other musicians felt so much more seasoned, but I didn’t feel I could allow fear to have the upper hand.

As my name was announced, I stepped out onto the stage. Shining down on me, the spotlight widened with wings, making me feel small and big at the same time.

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I sat down, hugging the guitar like it was a sinking ship, scanning the audience, searching for some simile of warmth among the thousands of eyes. The story I had written, a story about struggle and hope, poured out of me. Each note was a piece of me, every lyric spoke my heart.

When the last notes fade, the hall burst into applause. With appreciation I never dreamed of, the audience stood and applause rained down. I felt silent tears building in the corners of my eyes; this was my moment.

When I walked off stage, I felt lighter. Whether I came out on top or not was irrelevant; I had confronted my fears. So that was the biggest win.

In my room that night, I cradled the old guitar and beamed. My reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. When I opened it, I was greeted by my best friend Rina standing there with a wide grin and envelope in hand.

"Good evening!" she exclaimed cheerfully. “I was going to tell you something that I think is going to make you very happy.”

Curious, I nodded. Rina walked in, sat down and stared at the old guitar on my bed. “You know, in every competition, every sort of competition, there’s something bigger than winning or losing. There’s a story. And tonight, your story touched so many hearts.”

She handed me the envelope. "Here are the results. Whatever’s written inside, you’ve won something much greater.”

I opened the envelope with shaking hands. It read: First Place: Me.

I was stunned. "You deserve it," she said. “And for your courage to share yourself, not just for your performance.”

I couldn’t stop crying. But when I tried to celebrate, Rina said, “But there’s something you need to know.”

It turned out Rina was one of the actual judges in the competition. She said she had been following my journey for years and was particularly moved by my songs. My bravery in telling my story had changed her view of music.

After Rina departed, I gazed at the old guitar again. So every scratch on it was reduced from a scar to a trophy. I clung to it and played a new song, one about hope and dreams.

But as I played those notes, my thoughts drifted. This victory was not the end. Thus began a new journey. There were more stages to play, more songs to write and millions of hearts to heal.

A couple of days after the competition, I got a message from a fan who turned out to be my childhood friend, Dika, who I hadn’t seen for years. He admitted he had surreptitiously tracked all of my performances and wanted to meet. He had always thought my dreams were foolhardy, and now he wanted to help me.

Meeting Dika was an emotional meeting. We told stories and memories, how life led us to this point. Dika said he was sorry for doubting me all those years and now wanted to help me with my musical journey.

After that conversation, I was confronted with a horrible truth my father, who had been missing from my childhood, was found to be alive and wanted to meet me. He told me that he regretted what he had done and wanted us to start over. It revived bitter memories I had to examine.

Torn, I weighed my options. Should I forgive him and give him another chance, or should I move on without him? This decision altered how I viewed love and forgiveness.

But in the middle of all of that, I stumbled upon buried treasure: recordings of the old songs I wrote with my father. Those were beautiful and painful memories at the same time, and I thought: Why not putting it together in a record with those songs in an effort to get back to that lost relationship?

Many years later, performing on a huge concert stage, I looked over at the old guitar still living with me. Remembering that night when I finally cracked open the door to who I was, I leaned into the microphone and said, “This song is about struggle, about dreams that never fade. To anyone who wants to give up, remember: As long as a heart is brave, nothing is beyond reach.”

But, as the song finished, something strange occurred. In the midst of the crowd, in the distance, one person stood out, a man whose face had once slipped from my consciousness, my father. He watched my every moment while I performed.

It was with tears of joy that I understood that every note I played, was not just for me, but for all those who suffered, for those who never lost hope, and a story that never ends. It was on that stage that the remnants of love returned to me and prepared me to share with the world again.

And when the stage lights dimmed, I knew that this chapter had only begun.

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