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Description
There was a time when chunks of wood were my best friends, little frames held tight by little wires stretched until the weight of a full grown man pulled on either end, and if my fingers danced in just the right places those little wires shook the world with sound.

But times got tough, and my fingers found dancing harder than they used to, so hard that from the partners they danced with and the little frames they danced on they walked away.

So what does this mean for my old friends?

...Not much.

They've been sitting in chairs or on pegs on the wall, gathering dust like instruments stuck with players who choose the safer life often do. And one day not long ago I decided to remedy that, if only for an hour or two. Much to my shock and dismay, the calluses on my fingers were completely gone.

I panicked, and one hour of playing turned into four while I hammered frantically away at half-year old strings like if I played them to the breaking point the calluses would return right then and there. Sorry old chap, we just popped out for a spot of tea, meant to leave a note...

All I got were blisters.

My fingers used to be like armor plating. They used to lay it down on the one and bring it right back again, over and over, and even the word "blister" refused to touch my ears because it knew my body simply would not listen.

And I know, "It's just a callus." But losing a callus is like losing a tool is like losing the music the tool was making.

This scares me, because since I parted ways with the days of making music and told myself "this is only for a little while..." I have felt more than a little empty inside. And it's not the gigs or the crowds or the free drinks that filled me, but the music in my fingers dancing a line under a melody sent drifting my way from from fingers just as frantic as mine.

...I think it's time my fingers pulled out their dancing shoes again.

Description
There was a time when chunks of wood were my best friends, little frames held tight by little wires stretched until the weight of a full grown man pulled on either end, and if my fingers danced in just the right places those little wires shook the world with sound.

But times got tough, and my fingers found dancing harder than they used to, so hard that from the partners they danced with and the little frames they danced on they walked away.

So what does this mean for my old friends?

...Not much.

They've been sitting in chairs or on pegs on the wall, gathering dust like instruments stuck with players who choose the safer life often do. And one day not long ago I decided to remedy that, if only for an hour or two. Much to my shock and dismay, the calluses on my fingers were completely gone.

I panicked, and one hour of playing turned into four while I hammered frantically away at half-year old strings like if I played them to the breaking point the calluses would return right then and there. Sorry old chap, we just popped out for a spot of tea, meant to leave a note...

All I got were blisters.

My fingers used to be like armor plating. They used to lay it down on the one and bring it right back again, over and over, and even the word "blister" refused to touch my ears because it knew my body simply would not listen.

And I know, "It's just a callus." But losing a callus is like losing a tool is like losing the music the tool was making.

This scares me, because since I parted ways with the days of making music and told myself "this is only for a little while..." I have felt more than a little empty inside. And it's not the gigs or the crowds or the free drinks that filled me, but the music in my fingers dancing a line under a melody sent drifting my way from from fingers just as frantic as mine.

...I think it's time my fingers pulled out their dancing shoes again.