I bought the guitar in 2019. This was attempt number two. Attempt number one was in my early twenties and ended after about four months when I accepted that I wanted to be someone who played guitar more than I wanted to play guitar. Attempt two had a better start. I found a teacher, practiced consistently for almost a year, learned maybe fifteen songs passably well. Then the pandemic happened, then life rearranged itself, and at some point I noticed I hadn't touched it in three months.
It's been on a stand in the corner of the room since then. I like having it there. The guitar, at this point, is doing a job. It's a pleasant object in the room, it occasionally makes me think I might pick it up, and it holds a certain potential energy that I find comforting. It hasn't been plugged in since 2022.
There is a version of me that plays guitar. He visits occasionally. He is welcome, but he doesn't live here.
I used to feel guilty about this. There's a whole discourse around hobbies and commitment and not being a quitter that I've worked through. The guitar cost me a few hundred pounds and gave me a year of genuine enjoyment and some calluses that have long since faded. That feels like a reasonable transaction.
Some things I thought were failed hobbies were things I needed for a time. I needed to try to learn guitar twice. I know that now. I don't need to learn it a third time, and I won't.
The guitar stays.