The Banjo

There’s a fellow in the laundry room just waiting for the dryers and playing his banjo. He’s not striving, he’s not driven, he doesn’t seem concerned about posture. But he’s making music, and that’s making him happy.

In another mood, that would thrill me. But today it makes me jealous and discontent. Where did I step from the road I was on and start berating myself for what I don’t do and hating what I do…do…? This banjo player is reminding me that I too, once loved playing the violin. Why do I now sigh patiently over it as if it were a querulous lover? Maybe we need counselling. Maybe I need to practice more. Maybe ‘practice’ is the last thing I need, and I should learn to play some bluegrass. Maybe I’ll go out there and ask this banjo-er…banjo-ist… banjo man, if he’s up for a jam with a heart sick violinist.

And maybe I’ll stop making all ya’ll listen to me whine. But this is the Egotist’s Club, after all, and if an egotist can’t whinge a bit about mooning around and missing a sense of purpose, what can an egotist do? I suppose I could discuss my dreams…but…that’s too far… After all, no one can relate to nocturnal wanderings, but in mentioning this particular sorrowful circumstance, perhaps you can see yourself. And perhaps, recognizing that all love (of people and things) takes care and thought and work, we can drag each other up by the bootstraps and try again tomorrow.


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