I was 11-years-old the first time I saw my brother's new electric guitar. It was black, white, silver, and brown. I vividly remember the amplifier, especially the bright blue light that lit up when it was on. Just the sight of the guitar against the amp was something that could light up a whole room. I thought about all of my favorite bands and how those bands were using the exact same instrument as this. There was so much opportunity for greatness in those strings and on those frets; I was in awe. I had so much respect for the guitar and its ability to grab so many people's attention. I knew that I would become a master of this instrument.
Although he told me not to touch it, I couldn't resist, especially because my brother Dave is very laid back. I knew he wouldn't mind too much. There was a time when I stole all of the candy out of his room. I was so worried that he would freak out but he laughed it off. So I assumed that when he said not to touch it, he just meant be careful.
One day, I walked into his room with confidence, knowing I could play it with ease. I picked it up and it was heavier than I expected. I plugged it in with butterflies in my stomach, turned it on, and began playing. The sounds that came out were most likely difficult to listen to, but something about the freedom in making my own sounds was so beautiful. I loved it immediately. I tested what sounds I could make with my hands arranged different ways and I was amazed that I was doing this all on my own. In the moment, I believed that I could be whatever I wanted to be.
After a while, I looked up at the clock and noticed 3 hours had gone by. It could've been any amount of time and it wouldn't have mattered because I was so lost in the freedom that time had lost meaning.
Months went by improving my skills and as I improved, I was falling more and more in love with guitar. After a year of playing my brother's guitar, he got a little fed up with it and we both begged my mom to get me a new one.