Why does a painter paint, Singer sing, Racers ride, even after their time has gone?
I remember perhaps about 6 years ago people glue to my guitar playing. I never played really well. I don’t think I did, but layman as they be, their blessings were honest and their request to never stop playing, how good I was, how my music gave them a moments joy, perhaps, these are the thoughts subconsciously that still make me pick up my guitar every morning. I am at a stage where it may be too late for a Rockstar breakthrough. I have many other interests besides music and composing music has been one of them. I guess consciously when I pick up my guitar every day and feel lost with no direction or end goal this is what I tell myself, “Go on. This finger movement. This phrase. This skill will help me in composing nice music. “ that is all I really see possible of me, now, composing. Also there maybe some other desire that leads me to it, say, showing off, making people woo over me which circumvates to more motivation to pick up the guitar. Heh, it is funny, the thing I am playing the guitar for is the same thing making me play the guitar or vice versa. It is the often overlooked things that are right in front of you, but hold the key to the door to a desirable answer.
Here is a poem about the same that I wrote, though it is not nicely done, I believe it conveys my emotions.
Why does an artist draw, poet write
Even after their days have been in blight?
Why does a preacher continue to preach
And a rider set out even in the night?
Reminiscing the young and fun filled days
Of civets in the attic and songs by the hay
Once I was passionate as the highest notes say
O’ wild dreams I set out to chase
I don’t feel.it anymore, the time has passed
That is a rational mind comprehended
Work hard, and settle down that is asked
Somehow I give in my dreams apprehended
O’ reminisce once again thy joyou days a soul sublimes
You have a call that is meant for giving
Turned you have the tables to your might
Let this song never be out rhymed
What a hypnotic dream I mumble each morning
As I rush to the corner of my room and arrange
Every sheet of music as the night before
I sit down and warm up the range
Come the night, a woeful
I wonder again why
Why does a singer sing, an artist paint
A poet seduce, lovers endure
Whose dreams are a life
What’s the devil to procure