The yellow paint peeled from my apartment walls in lazy strips, like old snakeskin refusing to let go. Tour posters—relics from when my name meant something—hung crooked on the walls, their edges curling inward as if trying to hide from the present. My instruments were thrashed all over the place. The lamp in the corner sputtered, casting strange shadows that danced across the hardwood floor.
I woke up with a start on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smelled of stale coffee and regret. My phone said 9:47 AM. Or was it PM? The curtains were drawn so tight these days it was hard to tell. My face itched—five days of stubble now, maybe six. Who's counting? The alarm started its daily screech, the one I'd been meaning to change to something less aggressive. "Just shut up!" I muttered, fumbling to silence it. It took me three tries. Everything takes three tries these days.
Mornings were never easy, but lately they'd become Olympic events. Each movement felt like wading through molasses, every gesture a negotiation with a body that had forgotten how to want things. The alarm's echo taunted me after I shut it off. Like everything else in my life, it was just another reminder of time slipping away. I swung my legs over the edge of the couch, ignoring the protest in my lower back. Getting old isn't for cowards.
The bathroom mirror was cracked, a jagged line running right through the middle of my reflection. Poetic, really. I barely recognized the guy staring back at me—when had my eyes started looking so tired? The toothbrush felt like it weighed a hundred pounds in my hand. It clattered into the sink, the sound bouncing off the tiles like a pinball machine.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The leaky faucet kept time better than I did these days.
I splashed cold water on my face, and that's when it hit me. The memory slammed into me like a freight train. No warning, no mercy. The lights were searing, the crowd was a living ocean, and my guitar—God, my guitar was singing. Not just playing; singing. Every note is perfect, and every chord is pure magic. The kind of night when you know you're exactly where you're supposed to be, doing exactly what you were born to do. My heart raced with the ghost of that adrenaline; I could almost taste the sweat and smoke in the air, feel the vibrations through my feet.
Memories are nothing but serpents. Try to hold them too tight, and they squirm away, leaving you with an agonizing bite.
Outside, the city moved at its relentless pace. I watched from my window as people rushed past, all of them so sure of their destinations. The old coffee shop across the street stood there, beckoning me. At least caffeine never disappointed me. The bell chimed as I pushed through the door. The scent of espresso and fresh pastries wrapped around me like a mother's embrace.
That's when I heard it.
"No way, Russell Thorne?"
The voice belonged to some kid who couldn't have been old enough to buy a beer. He nudged his friend, eyes wide with the kind of recognition that makes your stomach turn.
"Dude, my dad played your stuff like all the time!"
I forced a sheepish smile on my face. I returned to my apartment with the cup of coffee and a pair of donuts. The guitar waited in the corner, gathering dust. I picked it up carefully. My fingers hovered over strings that once felt more familiar than my own heartbeat. The first few notes came out wrong—twisted, angry things that made me wince. Frustration bubbled up hot and fast—a familiar friend these days. The guitar hit the wall before I even realized I'd thrown it.
Then something strange happened.
A whisper of music?
Must be my imagination.
The room felt different suddenly, charged with possibility. My hands found the guitar again, and this time... this time the notes came easier. Nothing fancy, just simple chords strung together. They were mine. Real. Present.
I played until my fingers remembered their old calluses. Until the sun shifted and the shadows grew long. Until the melody in my head finally matched the one coming from the strings. It wasn't anything like the bangers that used to captivate stadiums. No screaming crowds would ever sing these words with me. Maybe that wasn't the point.
Looking around my apartment now, I saw it differently. The peeling paint told stories of late-night writing sessions when the music wouldn't let me sleep. The crooked posters weren't just reminders of what I'd lost—they were proof that it had all been real. Even the crack in the bathroom mirror seemed less like an omen and more like a line in the sand. Before and after. Then and now.
I pulled out my phone and did something I hadn't done in months—I recorded myself playing. Just three chords and a whispered melody about starting over. Sometimes you have to get lost before you can find your way back. The sound quality was obnoxious and the performance was far from perfect. But it was honest. Raw. True.
For a moment—just one moment—I felt like myself again. Not the guy on the posters or the tormented soul in the coffee shop. Not the ghost of success . Not the shadow of failure. Just me, six strings, and the quiet promise of tomorrow. The realization hit me like a soft rain: maybe that's all I ever needed to be.
The sun was setting now, painting my walls in shades of orange and pink that made the peeling paint look almost beautiful. I played one last chord. It rang out into the growing darkness. The note hung in the air like a question waiting to be answered. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I was actually curious about what that answer might be.
Sometimes the hardest part isn't falling from grace—it's learning to walk again once you hit rock bottom. But maybe, just maybe, that journey is its own kind of song. One worth playing, even if no one else ever hears it.
I set the guitar gently in its stand. My fingers lingered on its worn surface. Tomorrow would threaten me with its own challenges. But tonight, in the silence of my apartment I'd found something — not the music itself, but the courage to listen to it.
And sometimes, that's enough.
Some days it has to be.