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ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ

Without music—who am I?

That's the question I've been repeating to myself for a while now. And one I can't find an answer to. The first time my little hands closed around the neck of a guitar I was barely four. By then I was already enchanted by the sounds my dad's created, drawn to that magical thing he did onstage. I had watched him play so many times already, so closely, that learning to play guitar was like breathing. Like some innate ability I had been born with.

I was the kid with the guitar, the freak in high school who people wondered if was also fucking his guitar. And just like that I became Chords. The virtuoso they called me, I call it love at first hear. Playing guitar is not only my love language, is how I communicate, how I express myself. My thoughts. My fears. My joy.

Music is my whole life. Or it was, a part of me died the day our band was gone. And now I see you, Race. Following on my steps, feeling those riffs as if they're the air filling your lungs, taking my place in my band, with my best friend. And I don't even know how I feel. I'm proud of you kiddo, but also incredibly jealous. Jealous that you get to tour with Bane, because I know he won't stop until he conquers the whole damn word. Because if someone breathes music the way I do is that mess of a man. And me? I'm giving you my guitar, my favorite one, the one that's been a piece of myself for so long I can physically feel it like another limb.

Handle her with care, Race.
And make it to the top, for me. For us.

Oh, and try to keep that hothead of my best friend alive while you're at it. He thinks he's the worst, but between us? Ree is the kind that's meant for something big. For something epic. The kind of man born only every so many lifetimes. And while he's the bane of my existence, I wouldn't be who I am or be where I am without his sorry ass.

Good luck bro!