Thoughts on the Otamatone
The blue instrument that sits on top of my desk gathers dust. It hasn’t been played in months, mostly because of the voice it possesses, like the bleating of a young sheep combined with the resounding flatness of a buzzer. It stares at me with its loveless face, its dull expression, its understanding shining through its black eyes but lending no more sympathy for me. Its tail on top is twisted the wrong way, its mouth is stuck in a strange imitation of an underbite as though it is contemplating its life with clenched teeth. I stare into its small eyes and we remember the days we used to have, alone in a room with no concern of anyone else being bothered by the music. It would be introduced as the greatest instrument, and would instantly make everyone at the shows laugh with its absurdity. Its dumb face would break into a smile as it would sing out. That face hasn’t smiled for a while now. It just sits, unmoving, on top of my desk, collecting dust.