Hi. I'm Pablo. I am a Martin X Series acoustic guitar. I cannot make sounds on my own, but I can recognize them, thanks to my incredible memory. Each pitch feels different. The low open E sends deep, slow waves through the entire core of my body. The high open E? Very different. The sharp, tight buzz of the thin string tickles the leftmost edge of my neck. I know you didn't ask, but I want to talk about chords. It's exciting stuff. Dsus2 is bright with just a twinge of anxiety. It's that feeling when the sun is hitting me and I start to panic about whether or not the toastiness will warp the wood on my neck. G7 to me is a feeling of anticipation. Like when I'm caked in human sweat and grease and feel the first touch of a cloth. Great. I managed to make myself feel empty and sad… because I only used to be a real instrument, one that was played. My unit of time is her most recently played song. I have no sense of how she understands time. But for me, I'm always playing her tunes in memory, over and over and over again, waiting for the next time she finally picks me up. It always feels too long. As of now, I have rehearsed the first minute of the jazz standard “Autumn Leaves” 150,000 times. Is that normal? Once upon a time, I was pampered. Everyone treated me like their old, fragile grandpa, and I loved it. No one dared place me on a hard surface. Or take me out for a walk without the thickest, most protective case. I was taken to the shop for a touch-up every so often, to fix some old joints here and there. It made me feel young again! The Pablo before 150,000 iterations of “Autumn Leaves” enjoyed his alone time. I used to beg for peace and quiet. I remember being so tired that I wished I could turn my strings and my senses off. (Her singing was a little… let's not talk about it.) Regardless of how annoyed I may have gotten, I miss those exhausting days. The days when I was spent but satisfied, when I felt that I had met the musician who could fulfill my purpose and make me complete. Now, silence is all I know. Once in a while, I'll hear a voice far away that is not hers, singing some song I don't know. I'll hear the muffled musical tunes of other instruments reminding me that I am trapped here, stuck in my thick, over-protective case. Although frustration and jealousy threaten to make me forget who I am, when it comes down to it, all I can do is replay “Autumn Leaves.” 150,001 150,002 150,003… Even if she has abandoned me, never to come back ever again, I still play “Autumn Leaves.” After all, I am her guitar.