i've always loved music.
a schoolmate and i used to meet up after school to listen to beatles stuff, and sing along.
he was paul and i was george.
later, i learned to play a few chords, enough to work my way through some songs.
later still, i teamed up with a girl - she did most of the singing, i looked moody in the background - and we made quite a few appearances, though small scale.
then slowly, it all fizzled out as the pressure of earning a living and sustaining relationships took over.
in between times, i dabbled with learning classical guitar, even the clarinet.

slowly but surely, i began to lose interest, and i switched my attention to writing - poems, then short stories, then at last a novel (unpublished, of course!), a couple of children's stories.

now, i'm starting to feel the urge to go back and start again.

it's strange how these things happen.
you think you have moved on, moved away, but something inside you survives and wants to pull you back.
perhaps it's the memory of enjoyment and pleasure.

i don't know.

my guitar is lying there, all ignored, but still in good nick in its case - waiting for me ...

i think i might say hello over the christmas break.