I Was Meant for the Stage

Michael sat in his room, it was bare hardly a shred of personality could be seen on the walls. There was a diploma hung up over the door, a remembrance of his success presumably every time he would leave his room. Sitting next to him was faded maple guitar; it had definitely been a faithful instrument, based on its appearance alone.

He fiddled with the heads trying to tighten the strings to the perfect pitch, a process he had mastered over years of practice. He put the strap on, and stood up. In that instance he was transported instantly. Standing in a capacity filled coliseum, the lights shining down on him, the fans consumed with anticipation. This was his home, this is where he belonged, this is where he was fated to be and he always knew it.

With each strum of his guitar, with each chorus he would sing out, a surge of adrenaline incomparable to anything in the known universe would flood through every last part of him. He would stand center stage, and in that moment everything felt perfect, any malice that existed in his life were immediately forgiven.

Melodies and accompaniments of strings, and horns, and drums would all be the background to his ballads of love and angst, of desperation, and hope; they would be his truest reflections. If we all have one purpose in life his was certainly meant for the stage.