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Well, here I am on the downstairs couch again. I've got a guitar in my hands as usual, but tonight is a little bit different from all of the other nights of the week. It's a Sunday night. Well technically, it's Monday morning. People are going to have to go to work later, and I'll have to go to school. Mystery Science Theater 3000 has just ended, and it's a little after one o'clock, though two o'clock is best for pouring your heart out. I love nights like this. It's just me and a guitar and...and a...Well, I guess it's just me and a guitar. Sometimes I wish that I could incorporate the guitar into my school work a little more.

Uh-oh, speaking of schoolwork, I forgot that I have an English project due tomorrow, or rather, this morning. It's a good one too. Not like those petty little worksheets, this project is a really deep and meaningful one. Not to imply that MY project will be a deep and meaningful one, but these projects are generally aimed in that direction. This particular assignment is a poem about myself. Well, who has more authority to write about Aaron Dobler than Aaron Dobler? I do consider myself the world's foremost expert on the subject. The paper the teacher gave me says to aim for my essence. After careful consideration, I decide that the essence of Aaron Dobler is when he's in the spotlight. Then, I decide to stop referring to myself in the third person because it just seems wrong.

I set the scene at a fictitious concert featuring ME playing my classical guitar for all the girls I am too afraid to ask out. To give you an idea of the number of people I'm talking about, imagine taking all the women int he world and putting them into the high school auditorium. In real life that would be one of the scariest things imaginable, but in this case, it's a good thing because they're enjoying the show. (Hey, I can dream can't I? If I can't dream in a dream, then when can I dream?).

"He walked to the center of the stage with a guitar in his hand.
He was part of the stage, and the guitar was part of him."

Hey, that's not too bad, I think to myself. Just then, I hear someone upstairs. It sounds like my dad getting a drink of milk straight from the carton, but that's a different story altogether. I quickly hide the poem under some books.

"What are you doing up this late?" he asks from the top of the stairs.

"Not writing poetry," I reply nervously and lying terribly. I was pleading mentally for him to go upstairs so I could finish the poem.

"You should get some sleep," he says. "Don't you have school tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I answer, and with that he is gone. I pull the poem back out, glad he didn't see it.

"With the strum of the first chord, his hand eased its way up and down the strings-
The notes easing up and down the audience.
Blocking the crowd out completely, he focused on his art.
Each note--a cell,
Each chord--a tissue,
Each chord progression--an organ,
Each song--an organ system,
The entire show was him."

Sounds kind of forced, I think to myself, but I've written worse. Satisfied with my work, I pack up my stuff and go to bed. I guess that wraps everything up into a neat little package.

But hey, wait a minute. I just wrote a poem saying I thrive on being in the spotlight within an essay about how shy I am with my personal feelings. How does that work? Could it be that the true essence of Aaron Dobler is contradiction?

I doubt it....

[this essay was scribbled out for an eleventh grade English assignment].

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