regrets
I tossed and turned for quite a bit last night, unable to sleep for some reason. Random thoughts and recollections flowed through my mind, and somehow kept me even more awake. When I woke, all I could remember was this sense of regret and loss...
Six years.
Six years spent in pursuit of music. All wasted. Granted, the first 4 was spent with a militaristic bent that did nothing for my musicianship, yet it was still a loss. Whatever bonds of camaderie forged then dissipated as I discarded my uniform. Whatever ties that bound were diluted as I switched alliance. Yes, comrades of old do meet up and reminiscent; yet it is never the same. The old days will never come back, as it never should. Regrets tinged with gladness.
The remaining 2 was spent improving my skills, yet in the end it all amounted to nothing. Forgotten solos, forgotten melodies, forgotten rhythms, forgotten pieces. It was as if I woke up from a prolonged dream, to find all that I chased to be just faerie dust. My switch to the horn destroyed my hard earned embouchure - my days playing music has come to an end. Frens remain, yet the bond of a common craft is lost. Minutes spent playing a single note now seem a great waste of time... yet why do I feel the regret?
My silver euph mouthpiece with its tiny dent, a mockery to my past. My twin french horn mouthpieces a monument to my lack of will. And my trumpet? I gave it away. Zach of many tunes, but mastro of none.
Two years.
Two years and more spent on church works. Works, mind, and works alone. Self draining work wholly unsanctioned. Brandname building, policy making, paper pushing, proposal penning, even money making. Did it all, and was so utterly drained. Drained like how sugar cane must have felt. And the irony? it was all self imposed. Self-deluded, I ploughed hard to my own whips, trudged on to my own slave beats. At the end of it when I look back, I see an empty ruin. Meaningless indeed, as solomon decried.
Three years.
Three years spent in an anti-social sport, and when I left it in the end, I left with nothing. Started it all with enthusiam and fervour, enough to sustain the infights and politicks. Like unrefined silver, the interest remained, puritfied slowly by the passing of time. Yet, when all that is dross is washed away, the tarnish sets in and blight my way. So what if I made it to the nat team? It is all still lost at the very end. Fellow archers, slowly leaving the line... and the day has come for me to take the step back. Stepping my way from the range, never looking back, I feel a part of me die and heard my bow cry. My silver sun. Last wielder of a spiga in the country. Too bad, there is now none. My days as the silver archer is over, and my fellowship with the band of archers is also irreversibly broken. I remember how it was, when we referred to those who left as deserters. Now I am one of them. I have deserted my peers.
Regret, regret, regret. My silver sun mocks me from its case, my arrows cry out for flight once more. But I cannot bring myself to unsheathe them... what is lost is lost. What is forsaken shall remain forsaken. Broken limbs will never shoot off without snapping.
We were 7, but now it is only 1... When I left the range, I left behind a whole world that had sustained me for years. I am now an alien in exile.
These horrid memories left me wide awake. What is to become of me next?
Will I start rowing, only to stop a few years later, tired, grumpy and disillusioned? Will I start spinning and hopping, only to stop a few years later, swearing never to do it again? Will I start practice with fervour and enthusiasm, and left the industry 5 years later jaded and bitter? Will I burn bridges as I used to, as I move from field to field? Will I finally be an island, and cease to be as a man should?
The horror.
It was not a nightmare per se, for you need to be asleep to dream, yet it gave me such deep feeling of dread, it felt so much more real than a morbid dream with demons and gore. The scariest tale is one that is most likely true; the most horrible story is one which could be true.
So have I lived a nightmare plagued with doubts, or had I merely looked back and perceived a nightmarish past?
The horror.
Six years.
Six years spent in pursuit of music. All wasted. Granted, the first 4 was spent with a militaristic bent that did nothing for my musicianship, yet it was still a loss. Whatever bonds of camaderie forged then dissipated as I discarded my uniform. Whatever ties that bound were diluted as I switched alliance. Yes, comrades of old do meet up and reminiscent; yet it is never the same. The old days will never come back, as it never should. Regrets tinged with gladness.
The remaining 2 was spent improving my skills, yet in the end it all amounted to nothing. Forgotten solos, forgotten melodies, forgotten rhythms, forgotten pieces. It was as if I woke up from a prolonged dream, to find all that I chased to be just faerie dust. My switch to the horn destroyed my hard earned embouchure - my days playing music has come to an end. Frens remain, yet the bond of a common craft is lost. Minutes spent playing a single note now seem a great waste of time... yet why do I feel the regret?
My silver euph mouthpiece with its tiny dent, a mockery to my past. My twin french horn mouthpieces a monument to my lack of will. And my trumpet? I gave it away. Zach of many tunes, but mastro of none.
Two years.
Two years and more spent on church works. Works, mind, and works alone. Self draining work wholly unsanctioned. Brandname building, policy making, paper pushing, proposal penning, even money making. Did it all, and was so utterly drained. Drained like how sugar cane must have felt. And the irony? it was all self imposed. Self-deluded, I ploughed hard to my own whips, trudged on to my own slave beats. At the end of it when I look back, I see an empty ruin. Meaningless indeed, as solomon decried.
Three years.
Three years spent in an anti-social sport, and when I left it in the end, I left with nothing. Started it all with enthusiam and fervour, enough to sustain the infights and politicks. Like unrefined silver, the interest remained, puritfied slowly by the passing of time. Yet, when all that is dross is washed away, the tarnish sets in and blight my way. So what if I made it to the nat team? It is all still lost at the very end. Fellow archers, slowly leaving the line... and the day has come for me to take the step back. Stepping my way from the range, never looking back, I feel a part of me die and heard my bow cry. My silver sun. Last wielder of a spiga in the country. Too bad, there is now none. My days as the silver archer is over, and my fellowship with the band of archers is also irreversibly broken. I remember how it was, when we referred to those who left as deserters. Now I am one of them. I have deserted my peers.
Regret, regret, regret. My silver sun mocks me from its case, my arrows cry out for flight once more. But I cannot bring myself to unsheathe them... what is lost is lost. What is forsaken shall remain forsaken. Broken limbs will never shoot off without snapping.
We were 7, but now it is only 1... When I left the range, I left behind a whole world that had sustained me for years. I am now an alien in exile.
These horrid memories left me wide awake. What is to become of me next?
Will I start rowing, only to stop a few years later, tired, grumpy and disillusioned? Will I start spinning and hopping, only to stop a few years later, swearing never to do it again? Will I start practice with fervour and enthusiasm, and left the industry 5 years later jaded and bitter? Will I burn bridges as I used to, as I move from field to field? Will I finally be an island, and cease to be as a man should?
The horror.
It was not a nightmare per se, for you need to be asleep to dream, yet it gave me such deep feeling of dread, it felt so much more real than a morbid dream with demons and gore. The scariest tale is one that is most likely true; the most horrible story is one which could be true.
So have I lived a nightmare plagued with doubts, or had I merely looked back and perceived a nightmarish past?
The horror.
posted by Zachary Shim | 4:32 pm
2 Comments:
wow.
zach, another soulful heart-wrenching rendition.
do you write your essays and papers for grading like that too?
i will give you A A A A A man.
really. itstrue.
heh, I wish I can get AAAA for my sem man. I wish. hah.
I think daniel seng wont appreciate such stuff leh.Confirm F
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