The child’s attention was captivated by the guitar resting provocatively in the corner. My desperate attempts to reach him were thwarted by the gleaming hope the metallic strings presented. I studied his face and saw not simple childish lust, but a cry for self-expression and salvation. The guitar shone from across the room; beckoning with honey-gold opportunities under a dark shadow of remorse. To face the music was to face the sorrowful monotony that had penetrated his soul.
He cautiously made his way towards the instrument, drawn to the precious possession like a moth to glowing luminescence. The mysteries within the frets seemed inexplicable to him as he attempted to play. The struggle he faced in his search for meaning was heartbreaking. Memories of his tragedy came flooding into my mind and filled me with teary-eyed determination. I had to help him escape his suffering repetition.
"Please don't cry,” I pleaded. “Self-expression doesn't just happen through your first song. You have to experiment."
I took the guitar from his tiny hands and began to play my melancholy song. I poured empathy, pain, and sorrow into the harmonies and spilled my emotional experience into the music.
"You're the first to ever hear my pain." I said quietly, feeling his understanding nod. I extended the guitar to the boy once more. “What’s your story?”
He took the instrument and stared at it with beautiful intimidation. Tears rolled down his soft face as he realized he had been lost in translation his entire life. After what seemed like a timeless moment, I could see a change upon his face, as if the necessity of releasing his burdens had suddenly become evident. He knew how to heal his broken soul: he had to live the tune of his own song. He began to play.