Maybe they had dreams of fame and fortune. Maybe they saw themselves strutting in front of crowds of screaming fans and adoring critics. But that was years ago, before they’d lived through a thousand days of highways and a thousand nights of dark places, small crowds and more than a few loud jerks. All for the love of it and a little bit of money. Enough to get to the next night, the next place. Enough to keep the dreams alive.
There they are, up on the stage, pouring themselves into a microphone, soul on display. Inviting strangers into their most private places, bearing witness to their secret hopes and fears, remembering their most beautiful moments, confessing their broken dreams. Wondering whether anyone out there is really listening, whether anyone out there really understands.
It was never a choice, but a calling. A calling to paint pictures of the life around them with a worn guitar, an imperfect voice and the burning desire to touch those of common vision.
Songwriters. They chose a life of sharing, courage and beauty. A fine life. Just close your eyes and listen.