He loved what he did; it was his life, and a life that he wouldn't trade for anything in the world.

But even good things come with bad, and lately he'd had his share of the dark side.

It started out tough, where no one would see him and no one would listen; respect was a foreign word and only assosiated with the Aretha Franklin song; though the word held no meaning anymore, to anyone. It's like when you say a word over and over and then eventually it starts to loose meaning, and just sounds like some baby spewing gibberish.

However, John was a creature all his own, a dying breed, a one of a kind. He had respect, he knew what it was, he gave it and wanted to recieve it, but as time went on, nothing changed.

He'd always had a very clear head, some would say a very 'good head on his shoulders,' but sometimes things slipped. Dark clouds littered the sky overhead and threatened a torental downpour. And at a time when most people would give up, give in, and dig themselves a hole to crawl into...John Mayer didn't. He picked himself up and he wrote songs from the experiences. It didn't matter what they were about, it didn't matter what key they were in, it didn't matter how personal they were, or how much of himself he was putting on the line. All that mattered was that everything was okay with the world when John had a guitar, a pen in his hand and a piece of paper on his lap.

And a mind that never disrespected him, abandoned him or betrayed him.

He learned at a very early age that sometimes there's only one person you can count on in the world: yourself.

He is always himself. And nothing else compares.

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