I sat back today and watched a guitar crumble into ashes. A soft breeze carried them up and over the newly mowed grass. Softly they floated, I felt the idea of music twisting in the trees, whipping branches whistling to the birds, flowers setting a stage for the bees. Sienna browns glowed from a reflected coal, almost a radioactive neon, it too faded. The last of my old sketchbook was gone, all thats left in the middle of powdery ashes lays the silver coil; like a stretched slinky, broken, I left it to cool before bending it into random shapes and tossing it away. Parts of my life were wasted putting effort into the sketches, musical designs was my passion for that particular book. I had drawn close to 70 guitars, some with the same molded styles but never the same colors or scheme. But that's in the past, now all that remains are a few paper thin ashes dissolving like a bubble, although it's gone and we can't see it, they linger, and reproduce into the earth. Soon my ashes will become another part of this world and maybe even reappear in a new sketchbook. However, the fact remains that today I burnt a guitar.
