. A M N E S I A C . P R O T A G O N I S T .

2010, Australia, Adelaide:
A musician sits alone. But something is wrong. Instruments rust, gather dust in the nooks and crannies of the rental they could not afford if they pursued their desires. Best to forget about such things.
Could the tiny muscles in their hands even remember the shapes of the chords?
Doubtful.
Work, the office, familial pressures—growing up—erodes every connection to the musical world. An artistic amnesia.
They no longer ask their loved ones, "Can I still call myself a musician if I'm not making any music?"
The sting of assurances and reassurances from half-smiling faces grows stronger each year. "Not just anyone can play guitar."
When did they last hold one? They genuinely cannot recall.
"Of course you're a musician."
Lies.
Polite and pretty lies.
A person sits alone.
~

2012, Australia, Adelaide:
A person enjoys their birthday. Drink flows. Faces blur. From a distance, a band plays songs no one will remember.
The party is nothing crazy, not like before—would their bandmates even recognise them, this version of them?
Best not dwell.
A distraction. A drink. Anything. Another drink. It's not enough.
Ah, a gift. Perfect.
Wait...a synthesizer? But why?
"Why?"
"Because," friends say, all warmth and well-meaning.
"But when would I ever find the time to play?"
"Slow down. Make some time."
"Yeah...right."
It feels frivolous, wasteful even—a real musician could make use of this. It feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.
A person stops enjoying their birthday party.
~
Later, in quiet and private hours, a person opens a gift.
Trepidatious, a person presses a button—sound.
Something ancient stirs. Their mind, as rusty and dusty as the instruments it cannot bear to part with, ignites at the single ringing note. Their old life, at least the memory of it, tries its best to reach the surface, reach the light. The specifics are missing, but the feeling returns stronger than ever.
A musician sits alone, awash with sounds.
Bliss.
~

2021, Australia, Adelaide:
A musician sits alone. Alone, and this is very important, only in the space their body occupies. Online, a community has already welcomed them. One older even than the relics of their 2012 creative outpouring that, at its birth, found no audience—no family.
~

Today, a musician—Kintsugist—presents to you their earliest contributions to internet-music (a scene they failed to connect with for almost a decade) nine years after their creation.
~