Sweat and Tears

Sweat and Tears

After the painful haste in Always With Me and Ponyo, my confidence took a stab. I'd hoped for so much more from each of us - Practices and combines have always showed that the sound we were capable of creating was so much more captivating and colorful. But there was no time to consider beyond that. Stage movements kept me busy for most of the night.

After Odoru and Red Sweet Pea, I was convinced the night was over. For a first concert, I felt mildly satisfied with this first foray into a strange new experience. I've grown to be understanding to how limits can often override expectations, and accepted the past few hours' adherence to that annoying fact. It wasn't the Dream I'd quite hoped for, but for a first concert, I could live with it.

I made my way in the dim lightings of the tiny backstage, carefully keeping my guitar (Which I might name "Newbie" - I'll explain next time.) close to my side. I was exhausted. Every bump and knock that happened between the transitions reverberated violently in my head. The tiniest of mistakes were only amplified and intensified by the tense silence that I tried so hard to maintain. By the time I got into my seat for the finale, I was almost ready for a simple end to the long, tiring day.

Fate has a unique taste and liking for irony. The first part of the Dream Medley had always been my favourite, in particular for the fact that our guitars were sure to have their fair share of stage presence for that one section. Beyond that, however, the balance of sound was left to the questionable acoustics of the PAC. Nevertheless, I started the song with enthusiasm, playing further from the soundhole just to squeeze out every nuance of sound I could from my guitar.

Then, everything went black. I wasn't looking at the scores, but for a moment every note I held in my head disappeared along with my vision. Muscle memory was the only thing driving me from chord to chord, and I picked up where I left off in a hurry, but another part of me remained in shock. I almost wanted to stop, but I saw what the darkness illuminated.

I saw the Year 6 players in front continuing to pluck and strum away. They were every bit as surprised as I was, but never missed a beat. I saw how our singers continued, confidently ignoring the absence of a microphone, their upbeat mood reaching far more hearts than their voices a few ears. I saw the audience holding up phones and lights, the light that may not have revealed my scores, but revealed what was important.

The dark allowed what was important to shine. And when we gathered outside the guitar room, listening to Dawn, Kevin, Miss Ho and Sin Hui's debriefs, I was already perspiring all over. My face in particular was covered with an unsightly sheen. And secretly, I knew my eyes were relenting to the emotions built up over the day.

My face was covered with a mixture of sweat and tears. And after awhile, I couldn't feel a difference between the two.

Dream

Dream

I was squirming in my seat just a couple of hours back, wondering and wishing about tomorrow. The concert fever built up in the recently bustling PAC had permeated my wakefulness, edging me on into countless worries and doubts. In a short hour, I'd be congratulating my artistically inclined friends whose intricate steps and movements have kept me enraptured for the night. In just another 12, I'd be back in the same venue but with a vastly different objective. Within a mere 22, the curtains of the PAC would part once again.

The anxiety had grabbed my mind once I stepped outside the campus, jolting my relaxed mood into disarray. I'd made the sudden realisation of how close it was to my turn on the stage. Not as an emcee, nor a mentally questionable speaker who only had 2 minutes to churn out as many one-liners that could be pulled from my imagination for the sake of class glory. For once, I'd be a performer.

Playing the guitar had been a dream of mine - The same instrument that sang infinite tunes in the hands of others had always receded into a silent, clumsy block of wood with a few strings attached to it the moment it was handed to me. I stared at it awkwardly for the first time, and it seem the least bit interested in returning the eye contact, only annoyed by my inadequacy that was amplified by the skill of its owner.

The chance to realise this off-handed thought had came true not overnight, but only through countless nights of plucking away at the six specific strings.When I played the G chord for the first time, I was drawn in completely. I listened to the six different notes that somehow found common ground in forming a collective musical picture, waiting for the sound to finally run out of breath, before slowly continuing with the then-painful C. Followed by D. Even E slowly made its way in. And all of a sudden, I didn't want to stop.

Over the next few months, with my right hand taking cues from the left, and the left reciprocating for the right's varying speeds, I made a steady progression. My left fingers had grown hardy from use, and familiar with each fret that corresponded to every string. My right had grown their nails out, forming the perfect tool in expressing every note with care and passion. Even my left index had taken to the task of barring down all six strings at once. My dream, bit by bit, was growing into a reality.

Right now, despite a desperate need to reconcile with my bed, the tabs and notes that I have pored over days on end are now resurfacing in my head, fighting for a chance to be released through my guitar again. I have no energy, but still create some to satisfy this near-addiction. I create some to do my best for tomorrow, in knowing my fellow dreamers are doing the same.

As I sleep tonight, I have my hopes up, my dreams big for tomorrow.

Routined Disaster

Routined Disaster

I've been falling into an endless replay of mundane days. The work of each passing day is what greets me the moment I step into the now familiar halls of our campus, and does not take its much-appreciated leave till it is satisfied. Yet before a breath can barely complete its precious cycle within my exhausted lungs, another comes along, demanding my attention. My mind is now eager only to arrange an appointment for a Sleep-In Saturday - despite me recently discovering how infinite my schedule can be, slumber continues to evade it.

I have seldom taken to any activity that involves repetition, as anyone who knew of my progress as an Air Rifle shooter back in Junior High may know (on a side note - congrats AWC!!!!). Routines always end up in a quagmire of misery, messiness and dissastisfaction in the abstract world I like to call my mind. There are people who rely on a routine to sort their lives out, but I'd very much rather build up a rhythm of my own choosing; A rhythm that provides freedom for variation to keep things fresh, a rhythm that keeps me going rather than drags me along, a rhythm that lets me know what to look forward to and when.

The danger of a routine is something I try to avoid, and I seek out the nuances of insanity in school that are always there to break up my droll days. Whenever a chance for a conversation to nowhere comes along in the form of a friend in the canteen, I check for any spare homework that my emotions may be able to overcome. If fortune allows for it, I gladly take the brief reprieve from school's duller effects and enjoy a talk that thankfully seldom includes any intellectual topics.

What do you do to break up your routined disaster?