The Only Thing That Brings Joy to My Life

      Is music.

     I used to love to listen to my extensive CD collection.  Some of my most cherished memories involve dancing around the bedroom I shared with my sister, Harper, singing along to The Killers and Blink-182.  Those were the good times, back before Daddy died.  Before Mom married The Monster.  Before that night in late April.  Before I condemned myself to a life of misery, here.

     I'm not sure what ever happened to my old music collection, but it was probably lost in the fire, along with everything else.

     Personal music isn't allowed here in the hospital, anyway.  They have a radio in their poor excuse for a rec room, but they never turn it on.  Instead, I've made friends with an old guitar that sits in the corner, forgotten by most.  I spend what little bit of time I'm granted in the rec room playing it.  Or trying to play it, rather.  I've managed to teach myself a few simple chords and am learning to piece them together and create melodies. 

     When I play, I temporarily forget everything.  I wish I could play forever, nonstop, permanently erasing the pain and regret that overshadows my mind most of the time. 

     Music fills the hole in my heart where love was originally meant to be.