Rantglass - because that's how things are.

Black keys.

Black keys.

It was gone, in just a matter of minutes.

I felt a pang of guilt, having given it away just like that. It happened in such short notice, I did not actually grasp the gravity of the loss until I was left with a blank, empty wall, paint peeling off it. The thick layer of dust it left behind was evidence of its long, lone existence. We walk past that big, black thing everyday, but our eyes have never lingered on it for long. Did it become a part of yet another dead furniture in the living room?

Well, at least I know now that it will be put into much better use. Someone will bring a burst of infectious joy into the air. Someone will bring bouts of doom and gloom with it. Someone will make life out of it for themselves, and for somebody else. Of cheerful melodies that would make an octogenarian glide across the floor and do a cha-cha, or soulful tunes that would make even the most apathetic individual shed a tear or two.

I cannot remember the last time my fingers caressed the keys gently, transforming motion into music. The frantic playing and last-minute revision I did that sent me to hotels around the city – those were the norm for the examination venues. The three teachers that I had, with colourful personalities and traits. One loved hitting her students whenever they hit the wrong notes so much, she got fired before I could even learn to say “Fur Elise” correctly. Another was the one piano teacher that everybody would love to have; we shed tears when she had to leave. The third one had an undying love for her fluffy Shih-Tzu (or Pekingnese, I know not which) dogs, which would generously bestow delighted students with ticklish licks.

Years later, however, this activity became more of a task than a means of pursuing a hobby shared by many others around the world. That, coupled with regular school activities killed my interest rather quickly. I gave up. Every now and then, I would have a go at it, attempting to play the relatively easy Coldplay tunes – but only if I were alone in the house. I want it still, although I do not need it anymore. Perhaps I should just get the mini, colourful ones that toddlers love to bang their hands on.

I hate the fact that I could get so sentimental with my possessions: it scares me at times.

Maybe I can visit it sometime, and let the memories rush over me once again.

White, empty spaces. What will be there next?

On air now: Come Back Down, Lifehouse

Details of this entry.Friday, April 15, 2005, filed under Blogger Archives.
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