“Jealousy” is too strong a word for what I feel when I watch someone pick up and play a guitar. It is too strong a word for for what I feel when I witness someone sit down at a piano and improvise a tune. After all, I’ve chosen my instrument: ideas, stories, language.
Still. I can’t help thinking how wonderful it must be to be able to pick up a musical instrument and just play. If I’m feeling sorrowful, I could play a sorrowful, sombre melody. If I’m feeling exalted, I could match what I play to that mood. If I’m feeling a deep, righteous anger, I could whip out a strong, aggressive string of notes. If I’m feeling mischievous, I could play a tune that bounds and bounces.
To my mind, there is something immensely freeing in being able to just play, and to have that play take on the momentary and shifting tint of my soul.