The old man slowly poured the smokey golden amber-colored Bourbon into the glass. He did this every night when he sat in the old wooden desk chair. It was 3 a.m. and a distant storm was brewing, the thunder rolling and lightning flashes dancing in the sky. The sound of a Cello came from the ancient vinyl record player, a sweet yet sad sound that was meant to inspire the words he would write.
The glass sat there untouched, and the music failed to inspire. He opened his worn leather journal hoping that he would find a hidden story there, sadly the words could not find their way through the veil to reveal their hidden meanings. They stayed quiet with only whispers of stories swirling in his mind, not truly heard and still unwritten.
In desperation, he picked up his Martin D-28 acoustic, a trusted friend that always held a song. Tonight, while the chords rang with a sound so very sweet the chords would not create a song, no words could find their way to bring a voice to the song. That special time, 3 a.m., had passed and the morning was near.
He left the glass full, the words unwritten, and the song unheard. Calling his old dog he opened the door and they sat on the porch listening to the rain and the thunder. The rocking chair, soothing, calming, he closed his eyes and sighed, and the old dog laid by his chair and he too sighed. He looked down at the dog and said, “it was a good night my old friend,” and the dog wagged his tail on the old wooden planks.
Perhaps there are songs that go unwritten, stories forgotten, and chords not found, but in the end, the silence of the universe is always there if we would only listen you would hear its music.