I started making music... I guess I was 12, and I started playing

Host: The garage was dim, lit only by a string of old Christmas lights draped across the ceiling like forgotten constellations. A guitar leaned against an amp, its surface scratched but proud, and the faint hum of a record player filled the space with the dusty rhythm of something eternal — music.

Outside, rain fell steady, the smell of wet pavement slipping through the cracked door. Inside, Jack sat on a wooden stool, his long fingers resting on the neck of the guitar. Jeeny stood nearby, arms crossed, watching him with quiet fascination.

Jeeny: “Post Malone once said, ‘I started making music… I guess I was 12, and I started playing Guitar Hero. And you know, it got to a point where on expert, you can only exceed to a certain point. And so, you know, I was like, “Let’s play real guitar. Let’s not waste more time.” So, I got my mom, I told her to buy me a guitar for Christmas, and I started making music then.’”

Host: Her voice lingered, mingling with the faint crackle of the record — a small testimony to ambition, to the moment where imitation meets creation.

Jack strummed a chord, slow and hesitant, the sound echoing like a memory.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? How something fake — a video game — can lead to something real.”

Jeeny: “Not fake, Jack. Just a spark. Every dream starts as a copy of something else. The trick is turning imitation into authenticity.”

Host: The guitar vibrated again, the notes soft, unrefined — but alive. Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes glowing in the soft light, the reflection of the strings dancing in them.

Jack: “So, what you’re saying is… even pretending can be sacred?”

Jeeny: “If it wakes something real in you — yes. Think about it. That’s what art is: the desire to go beyond simulation. Guitar Hero was just his first stage. He played to pixels until he heard his own sound calling.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just got bored.”

Jeeny: “No one chases greatness out of boredom. You chase it because there’s something inside you that refuses to stay ordinary.”

Host: A drop of rain slipped through the roof, landing on the cold floor with a faint splash. The room smelled of dust and old wood — the kind of scent that carries the ghosts of youth.

Jack: “You sound like you believe everyone has that in them — the hunger to make something real.”

Jeeny: “I do. Every child who ever built castles in sand or sang into a hairbrush was trying to touch truth. The difference is, some stop pretending, and some decide to turn the game into life.”

Jack: “So Post just leveled up?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack laughed, a deep, low sound that bounced softly off the concrete walls. He ran his fingers along the guitar’s fretboard — clumsy, deliberate.

Jack: “You know, I used to play Guitar Hero too. Could never get past ‘Through the Fire and Flames.’ I thought mastering that song made me invincible.”

Jeeny: “And did it?”

Jack: “No. Just made me really good at pretending to be someone else.”

Jeeny: “Then you understand him. That moment when pretending stops being enough — that’s the moment you grow.”

Host: The rain picked up, drumming softly on the tin roof, a rhythm that seemed to blend with Jack’s hesitant chords. He looked down at the guitar, then at Jeeny.

Jack: “But isn’t that all life is? Pretending? Everyone playing expert mode on something they can’t really control — trying to look real enough to fool themselves?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “It’s learning the rhythm first — even if it’s just on a plastic fretboard — and then daring to write your own song.”

Jack: “But some people never make that leap.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe they never wanted to. Or maybe no one believed in them enough to buy them a guitar for Christmas.”

Host: Her words hit gently, like a melody remembered too late. Jack looked down, his expression softening. The guitar hummed under his touch again, the sound less hesitant this time — a small act of defiance against silence.

Jack: “My dad used to say music was a waste of time. That it wouldn’t feed anyone. Maybe that’s why I stopped.”

Jeeny: “Then play for yourself, not to prove him wrong. Play because something in you still remembers that spark — that 12-year-old dreamer inside every cynic.”

Host: The fire of the record player hissed faintly as the vinyl ended, the needle clicking softly in the groove. The air seemed to pulse with the ghosts of unspoken songs.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Creation never is. But the hardest part isn’t learning chords. It’s believing your sound matters.”

Host: Jeeny picked up a small tambourine from a nearby shelf, tapping it softly against her palm, adding a faint shimmer to his rhythm. Together, they built something clumsy yet strangely alive.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s what Post was really saying. Not just about music — about courage. About knowing when to stop copying and start living.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We all have our Guitar Hero — the safe version of our dream. The real art starts when we put it down.”

Jack: “And risk being terrible.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because being terrible is the beginning of being true.”

Host: The song they were making — improvised, uneven — filled the room with an ache that was almost joy. Jeeny’s hair shimmered in the soft light, her laughter blending with the faint tremble of the strings.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? For the first time in years, this doesn’t feel like pretending.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it isn’t.”

Host: The camera would linger here — the flickering Christmas lights, the two figures laughing, the sound of a song half-born but entirely real. Outside, the rain softened, as if listening.

Jack: “So maybe it doesn’t matter where inspiration comes from — game, movie, heartbreak. What matters is where it takes you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every imitation is just an echo waiting to find its voice.”

Host: Jack strummed one last note — raw, imperfect, beautiful in its sincerity. The sound lingered, resonating in the silence like an unanswered prayer finally spoken aloud.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack? You didn’t stop making music. You just forgot it wasn’t about being perfect. It was about being alive.”

Host: The light flickered, the song fading into quiet. The rain ceased. And for a breathless moment, there was only stillness — the kind that comes when creation touches the soul.

Outside, the world waited — ordinary and infinite.

And within that small, glowing garage, one truth shimmered beneath the hum of the old lights:

That the real guitar of life begins not when you master the notes —
but when you finally believe you have something to play.