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A tuneful soul

Updated on November 19, 2011
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Before everything began, there was one anticipation, one apprehension.

My fingers became cold and benumbed as if I have just place my hands in a refrigerator for minutes. I heard the incoherent cacophony of mumblings and prattles around. All of the seats were occupied by avid people, be it young and old, female and male, enthralled by the suspension held. I looked down. The platform was dark. There was no sign of the performance crew.

Then it commenced. The bleak, warm night was shifted into a dazzling, stupefying gala. The convivial actors came out in a split second, their presence accentuated by the spotlights that turned on. They were the cynosure of attention; the myriad ways of pleasing the audience with their dances and attire were sterling.

Spontaneously segueing from one chapter to the next, the festive lasted shorter than I had expected.

The music came.

So ethereal, so indescribable. Made furtively from a band somewhere in the dark where the spotlights did not shine upon, the music reminded me of heaven. The sound was as sweet as the lollipops, as refreshing as a cup of pleasant mixed fruit juice, and as stupendous as a heap of money that dropped from the sky upon your head. I was basking in the dulcet tune of the melody, enjoying its every instrument, its every individuality.

Don't let this go away, don't let this fade away. Let the music stay for as long as it wishes. It can travel through air, solids and liquids. It can uplift any despondent soul and give it the energy to be free once again, floating in the sky like a kite, swaying to and fro with the wind, contented with nature.

What does musical instruments say about? They don't talk like humans do, blathering and babbling. They don't have legs and hands and brains just like animals do. They are made of synthetic materials and even natural resources. Their power, their energy, their dynamism - they are intangible and invisible. They are stored around them, inside them, and everywhere, as the mind keep repeating the tunes they made from scratch ad infinitum. I wished I could store the music into my memory, but that would have been impossible, as the constructive and destructive waves driven by fetch and wind energy will come upon my shore and washed my miscellany of gems away.

If my pieces of my memory were transported parallel to the coast by longshore drift, I could still retrieve them. But if they were taken with the backwash of the waves and to the sea out of my reach, I could no longer take them back and I have to find them again somewhere, sometime.

Music is elusive. I heard them in concerts, I heard them in music rooms, I heard them in the rain, I heard them in the crackling of the fire, the energetic basis of things. My ears are not my eyes. My eyes will never be short-sighted, they will never loose its ability to capture sounds, most preferably, music.

I have a tuneful soul.



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