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Same As It Ever Was

Anne is a writer with a passion for self-expression and publishing.

A Place Called Home

This story, or piece of prose that I wrote is about one of my favorite places in the town that I live, a music store. When I was going through a tough divorce, this place got me through so much, and I made so many friends there.

This story, or piece of prose that I wrote is about one of my favorite places in the town that I live, a music store. When I was going through a tough divorce, this place got me through so much, and I made so many friends there.

The Music Place

Here it is, same as it ever was. Like that song that I can't seem to get out of my head. Talking Heads and verses and songs, talking in my sleep, trying to remember and capture those beautiful memories, on nights when all the world is sleeping, except us. I walk into this store, this place that is so much more than a store, the place that I called home, for so many weeks. There when I walk through the door, a friend is there to greet me, at the register with a smile. The walls are lined with rows upon rows of shining, glimmering guitars. I feel the beautiful energy of the music lifting my spirits, giving me a high like no drug ever could. But soon, my heart starts beating, faster and faster, the pulse that I feel as I make my way to my home away from home, the drum room. I go inside and sit in front of the electronic kit. I grab some sticks and begin to feel that pulsing rhythm within me, come out on the toms, and the snare, and the kick. I let the moment capture me, like as still frame picture as I play, over and over again, to my heart's content. You are not one is, for the moment. But that's okay. I'm here, and that's all that matters. The room vibrates with the rhythm of my heart, customers come and go, smiling as they see this women, playing drums, living her dreams. I may not be the best, but it's nice every once in a while, to get a smile from passers-by, knowing that I am achieving something great, with every minute of practice. You walk in and smile, a friendly neighbor, a friendly face, and make your way behind the counter, ready to help customers. I take a break, walk around and admire the drums, studying everything I can about them, adding notes to my own mental spreadsheet. I dream of knowing, every type of wood, and every type of material that all of these drums are made of, to somehow soon become an expert in everything drums. I see there, a couple looking around, almost lost in all of the magic of the drum room. As I look over, I see you helping out other customers, so I make my way over to them and introduce myself. I don't even work here, but some days, I feel like I do, and if I can just help you make one more sale, well, I feel like I've accomplished something great.

"Do you work here?"

"No, but I am a student here. Is there anything in particular you were looking for?"

"Well, we are looking for a drum set for my son."

"Absolutely. You know, we have so many great starter kits here."

There I go, talking about all of the starter kits, and starter sticks, and recommending the lessons they give here. If someone from the outside were to walk into this store right now, they probably would think that I worked here, and sometimes I wish I did. That I could just quit my day job and come spend all of my time here, but I don't think I would be able to. I don't think I'd make enough here to make ends meet where I am. Even so, I suggest the lessons for their son, help them pick out a practice pad and a good set of starter sticks, and motion them to come to you. You smile at me as if you know I was meant to be here, that this life, and this place, and all of this, is supposed to be this way. I look at you like I'm in love with you every day, but all I get in return is the smile, and the friendly way you hug me. I oftentimes wish that we could be together. Here we could stand, us against the world, selling drums sets, putting them together and on display, me going to all of your shows and cheering you on with every tour. That's just not the way things ended up. After the bustle of customers dies down, you invite me to come outside with you for a smoke break. I think to myself that this might be the perfect opportunity to tell you how I feel. How I want to stay here in this place, with you, forever. For a few moments, we just stand there in silence, puffing away, until I break the silence. I say everything and it comes out of my mouth like vomit, not at all how I had wanted or planned. You stare at me, dumbfounded for a moment, and then...the letdown. The beautiful letdown. You assure me that guys will be lined up around the block for me soon, that you would have asked me out, if things had been different, but now, it's too late. I don't understand. I hold back the tears and pretend to be tough, pretend like it doesn't bother me. Inside I am hurting, outside I am just another one of the "regulars" at the music store. The customers that come in every week to play, to live, to feel the beautiful home that you have built inside. I wish that you felt the same way, but here I am, alone, gone. Every time I visit the store now, though, I remember. You aren't mad at me, you don't hate me. It's the same as it ever was. And if we can't be together, I guess that's just the way I'd like it to be.

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