There is a moment —often quiet, almost invisible —when a pure and sacred longing begins to corrode. At first it shines. You feel it as reverence: For music, for the instrument in your hands, for the sound you hope one day to create. It's a delicate, glimmering thing—knowing you are in the presence of something worthy of devotion. But over time, if that longing is met with years of self comparison, scarcity of encouragement, or the daily grind of "not there yet," it begins to
