transcendence

The cymbals clashed. The audience erupted. The lights flipped on. And then, it was time for us. Time for the dozens of hours we had spent practicing to pay off in three minutes. As the previous group exited the stage, I took a deep breath in, held it, then exhaled through my mouth. Then we were on, walking onto center stage. Some of us played to get it over with, but I wanted to play to captivate the audience. I wanted to perform. With the bright lights shining in my eyes, surrounding my body in a warm spotlight, the crowd went silent. My guitar was in hand, the microphone turned on and turned up, ready for showtime. I turned around, gave the signal, and counted us in. Then, I played the opening notes. My fingers immediately took charge, flying across the fretboard, sculpting the sound as it hit the audience, full of emotion. Then the sound of my voice filled the room before I knew it, reciting the words I had practiced time and again. But this time, I knew it was different. There was power in the powerful moments, sorrow in the sorrowful moments, and regret in the regretful moments, though I felt none of those emotions. I felt transcendence. As it came time for my guitar solo, I slid my index finger up to the A on the low E, playing an A minor scale—but it felt like more than just noodling with the strings in A—I was gliding through the melody, my fingers doing the singing for me. I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore. Then, before I knew it, it was time to sing the last verse. The song ended with the clashing of the cymbals, the erupting of the audience on their feet, and the lights turning on. We walked off the stage, and made way for the next group.