The well-tampered clavier

There is an upright piano at the foyer of the school, with its lid up and keyboard always ready to take a pounding. The notes sounding from its tarnished black lacquered body are probably in need of professional tuning, and I wouldn't be surprised if one or two keys are stuck.

Everyday, I heard snatches of misplaced chords and fragments of a melodic line drifting faintly from the piano at recess time, and usually see 2 or 3 kids sitting on the piano bench enjoying companionship. The fractured portions of the music that they imagined doesn't seem to disturb them very much; they are more likely compelled to tinker with the keys that can hammer out something interesting rather than engaging in music-making. But like them, I'm similarly attracted to the sound of music, or rather, just pure simple tones. The latter alone is enough to transcend the ubiquitous bustle of life, and temporarily dislocate my consciousness to an awareness of its calling.

So often had I wished that my parents had forced me to take up the piano lessons that they offered me when I was very young, or had the chance to keep persist in my violin lessons through my life stages. I dream a lot about being able to sit at the worn-out piano every recess and play Chopin, or to go busking in the midst of the crowd in Orchard and play Bach on the solo violin. I want to give more of this world a glimpse of the beautiful and magical through the transcendental powers of music.