Frustration

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, much like all Saturday afternoons. Not like weekends meant anything to her. She looked for a fitting spot for herself. 

I've got to find myself a better street, she thought to herself. The college street she frequented on most days was barricaded for some sort of a fest this weekend. What lives these kids have, she'd often muse as she watched them go by, their brightness lighting up the streets as they purposefully strutted down the familiar promenade towards each of their dream worlds in the future. They either seemed to know what they want or did not really care enough to want anything yet, she thought. They'll get there soon enough, she scoffed.

She turned her attention towards the street she was on right now, on this uneventful afternoon. She looked at the few men and women in suits who walked around with the look of temporary relief on their faces. Why weren't these people at home, I mean who works on Saturdays? She guessed at what each of these lost beings might be trying to escape from at home in the middle of a weekend. 

She wondered about her own situation as she began to set up outside the entrance to a near-empty cafe. The struggle she was going through didn't seem so different than those of others. She replayed her mother's words in her head and wondered if she really was the failure her mother said she was. Was wanting to do what makes you happy a crime? Did she not deserve to leave a mark in this world as somebody of her choice? Were these people with steady jobs any less confused than her?

She snapped out of it. She will have a real audience one day. But no path was complete without thorns, and she would do whatever it takes to get there. But for now, she must get out her pick and start strumming this guitar if she wants to get a head start. If nothing else maybe she would entertain these handful of depressed souls and leave a mark in their memory of this quiet Saturday. That is what musicians do, isn't it?