The makers of Grand Theft Auto V were probably looking to evoke a lot of things from the game’s players throughout its single player story. The game has no shortage of crime, vulgarity, grit, and juvenile humor. I wonder if they meant to convey such a resonating notion of friendship and loyalty. It could very well be my ability to pick up things that probably aren’t even there at play, but you never know.

There’s a part of the story where one of the supporting characters has gotten themselves into trouble, again, and they subsequently need saving. At first, I hated the idea of going to help this character. This character’s screwed up so many times and seemingly just didn’t want to learn, so why should the character you’re controlling at the time bother helping them? They’re just going to get themselves in trouble again. It seemed like a waste. It, to me, logically made more sense to just write this character off and move on.

But you don’t get that choice, so you have to go over and help this character out. Gunfights and calamity ensue, but you’re able to save this character. Instead of offering much in the way of thanks, the saved character almost starts criticizing the character who saved them. Accusing them of forgetting where they came from and only looking out for themselves. There’s a bit of wounded pride in the subtext, like this character felt abandoned and had to make due on their own.

I wanted my character to just shoot this character in the face right then, but again it wasn’t an option. Later on in the story, the saved character needs to help the main character, and he offers up his services without a moment’s hesitation. All squabbling was put aside and he was ready to stick his neck out at a moment’s notice.

Before, I had so heavily focused on the lack of intelligence and efficiency this character had in going about things that I could not see the concept of friendship and loyalty. In that, I got a lot of insight into how I look at the world. After the supporting character helps the main character, there’s a mutual sense of family and unity. There’s even an ‘I love you, bro’ thrown in there which was somewhat surprising.

It made me think that maybe it’s not about how many times people screw up, or how often they’re prone to screwing up. It’s more about being there for each other when the other needs help. The logical side of me can only push this idea but so far, but it’s really brought to light my track record of not being the most forgiving person ever.

I’ve, historically, been pretty quick to write people off. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but it’s true and I wouldn’t be growing as a person if I flat out ignored it. The scenarios and situations all vary, but some are more arguable than others. All of them, however, probably could have lead to salvaged relationships had I only stepped back from my position on whatever the topic was. It’s a curious realization to make.

I hold such high expectations for myself. I’m kicking myself for not having set up asynchronous client updating based on SQL database changes for the website version of the DM RP system I’m writing, and I don’t allow myself to realize that sites like this are usually developed by TEAMS of people who have YEARS of experience and that some might find it to be pretty remarkable that I’ve gotten as far as I have in the time that I have. But I don’t feel any comfort or pride in that. I want to be able to figure this stuff out. Now. And anything less than that is a failure of some extent.

And that sense of being a perfectionist and having what are most likely unusually high standards have bled over into my expectations of other people. Looking back, there have been times where I’ve flat out expected someone to read my mind and that’s not fair. There have been times when I, even now, still feel like someone made a pretty big mistake, but I didn’t do much to offer forgiveness or understanding. I either walked out of their life or I let them walk out of mine without much resistance over either outcome.

And that’s really not a way to live. At least, it’s not the way I want to live going forward. People make mistakes. I sure as Hell have made my share. Some people have lapses in judgment. Some people don’t see other perspectives. Some people don’t see the extent of the damage their actions can cause. I’ve been one of these people in every instance, so who am I to feel like others can’t be?

I think the emotional wall I usually keep up has done a lot to bar me from showing that kind of forgiveness or understanding. Sometimes I’ve leaned too heavily on pride when I should have just said, ‘Hey. That hurt my feelings’. Again, not something I’m really proud of. I’ve lived so much of my life looking at things with this logical lens with a firm barrier up between me and the rest of the world that it’s hard to have any other perspective. This whole ‘letting people in’ thing is pretty hard for me. It’s something I may struggle with for the rest of my life, but that’s a struggle I want to take on.

I want to give a damn about people, and I want people to give a damn about me. The people who are worth giving a damn about, to be specific. I’m not trying to gather everyone’s favor.

I think about some of the people I don’t talk to anymore sometimes. I don’t really see myself reaching out to any of them. They probably have formed solidified opinions of me for one reason or another, and in their mind they’re completely right in having it. I think about whether I’d be willing to mend some of those fences, or if it’d even be possible. I’m honestly not sure. Whether or not I speak to them again, the time I knew them serves as an experience I can grow and learn from.

A game about senseless violence and destruction taught me that it’s more about weathering storms with the people who care about you than it is to be right or wrong.

Tonight, I did something I haven’t done in a long time; play the guitar. I remember over the summer when I bought this new guitar. Nothing fancy, by any stretch of the imagination. It was supposed to be a means to an end. If I learned how to play the guitar, I could learn how to write music. At the very least, I would be able to halfway know what I was talking about to musicians who could put the sounds in my head into something that actually made sense. No more feeling like a jackass humming notes whose names I don’t know.

Playing the guitar itself had benefits on its own, though. There’s something rewarding about looking at this relatively alien piece of hardware, picking it up, and getting some kind of sound out of it. In some ways, singing has been an expression of my soul. Playing the guitar is another kind of expression.

When I sing, there’s an audience there. When I’m really, really getting into singing it feels like it’s just me in the room and I’m just letting everything go, and out. But I know that when it’s over there are going to be people there. I hope for, if not need, some form of positive reaction from the bearing of my soul. I’m not the greatest singer by any stretch, but it’s one of the few things I’ve ever put my all into.

With playing the guitar it’s different.

When I play the guitar, I am alone. There’s no audience. There’s no one’s positive reception I’m looking or hoping for. It’s just me. I don’t close my eyes like I do with singing sometimes. It’s a different kind of concentration and muscle memory. Instead of breath control, it’s trying to be mindful of the next jump on the fret my hand has to make, and what shape my fingers need to be when they get there. There’s a certain rhythm and dexterity that’s unlike anything I’ve ever done before.

Mind you, I am not good at playing the guitar. But the effort in trying to play the guitar connects with my soul in a relatively profound way.

Tonight, playing the guitar felt very symbolic. In a lot of ways, I compare the guitar to my soul. At least tonight I do. My guitar’s been right where I left it, in the corner collecting dust in my living room. Sealed away in a bag with all its connecting parts boxed away and rolled up. It was something of a chore to get everything untangled and organized once I got it out of the bag. I felt a certain nervousness. I hadn’t touched the guitar in a long time, and as poorly as I played it back then, adding a few layers of rust could only make things worse.

But there was a familiarity in hearing those pieces click together and lock in place. The guitar connects to the foot pedal. The pedal to the amp. That low buzz of feedback when my crappy little amp cut on. It took me back to a time when music was a more prominent part of my life.

Tuning each string built up more and more anticipation and anxiety. Taking up the fret and strumming the strings to make sure everything was tuned felt like hopping back on the proverbial bike.

I surprised myself with how much I had remembered, but wasn’t surprised with how out of practice I had become. That fact was apparent in the sound. Missed notes. Inaccurate hand placement. The residual stinging in my fingertips that reminded me that any callouses I had developed from when I played consistently were long gone. I was starting over, I had been here before, and I never left all at the same time.

The sound from my guitar tonight, my soul, was extraordinarily far from perfect. In fact, the perfectionist in me cringed and felt its usual share of disappointment in my inability to instantly master something and move on from it. But therein lies the notion.

Connecting with my soul is not something I can just perfect and be done with. And even when I stray from it, it’s there to welcome me back. It never left. It’d just been sitting there waiting for me all this time.

I could see it everyday in the corner, but knowing it’s there is a good deal different than taking it out, connecting with it, and really embracing what it has to offer.

I’ve missed the expression of my soul. And it’s missed me.

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.” -Anonymous

I think about this quote sometimes. It has a profound resonance for me as of late. Before long, I keep finding myself back at the same place. The path there always looks and feels different, but I wonder if there’s something I’m missing. Life is funny in how progress can be made in some steps, but you end up feeling like none has been made at all.

Sometimes, you just have to pick yourself up and keep moving forward I guess.