I’m 63. I play the guitar. Or used to. I mean, I still *have* guitars. Three electrics, two acoustics, a mandolin that’s kinda just… there. Gathering dust in the spare room. Used to be my studio. Now it’s just the spare room. With some instruments. I live out in the sticks. Ten years now. Moved out here after the last tour wrapped up. Thought it would be good. Quiet. Space to *create*. That’s what I told everyone. The band, my manager, myself. And for a while, it was. Wrote a whole album’s worth of stuff, even if it never went anywhere. Just for me. But then… nothing. The well just dried up. Like a really old, crusty well. You know? Where you drop a pebble and you don't even hear a splash. Just a dull thud. Is that weird? Does everyone feel this? My mom calls. Every Sunday at 11 AM, without fail. Sometimes she forgets it’s Sunday. Sometimes she forgets she called me last week. She’s 91 now. Lives three states away. The calls are always the same. “Did you eat? Are you still playing your music? You should play your music, it’s SO good.” And I just say, “Yeah, Mom. Yeah, I’m good.” What am I supposed to say? “No, Mom, I haven’t picked up a pick in six months and the only thing I’m creating is an impressive collection of dust bunnies under the bed”? She wouldn’t get it. Or she would get it too much. And then I’d feel even worse. The guilt, man. It’s a thick, heavy blanket. Like one of those weighted ones, but it’s not comforting, it’s just… HEAVY. Tried to write something yesterday. Sat down with my old Stratocaster. The sun was coming in through the window, hitting the fretboard just right. Looked cool, like a movie scene. Picked out a few chords. G minor, C major, D sus 4. My fingers remembered the shapes. Muscle memory. But nothing. No melody. No words. Just… silence. And the sound of the old fridge humming in the kitchen. It was louder than my playing. After twenty minutes, maybe thirty, I put it back on the stand. Walked into the living room and watched some stupid reality show about people buying houses they can’t afford. It was… fine. Bland. Like unsalted crackers. It’s 2:17 AM. My dog, Buddy, is snoring at the foot of the bed. He’s a good dog. Doesn’t ask about my music. Doesn’t ask about anything, really. Just wants his dinner and a walk. Maybe that’s the trick. To stop asking. To just… exist. But then what’s the point? I don’t know. I just don’t know.