Soliloquy by the Seaside

Dear Readers,

theokwek apologises with utmost sincerity about his prolonged leave of absence - latest reports say that he has been on a well-deserved break on the island of Tioman, East Malaysia. Well, he certainly must be back, for what do we find but an essay inspired by the lovely sunsets and quietness of the sea he experienced on the trip. He has indeed been writing on the go. Sit back and enjoy!!

P.s. on our forum theokwek received invitations to write about the piano, for a change. he would like to assure readers that the poem has been planned and is under progress. look out for it soon!!

P.s.s. Lastly, to theokwek, Bon Voyage for future trips!

The Straight Times Editor

Soliloquy by the Seaside

His fingers, caressed tenderly by tendrils of the cool sea breeze, coiled lovingly around the delicate fingerboard of his violin, finding its familiar clasp. He felt the cold solidity of the stone bench beneath him – one of many planted strategically along the shoreline for weary passers-by; heard the lucid swaying of the coconut palms that were signature of his humid, mosquito-infested tropical seaside surroundings; glimpsed the glinting, flickering lights that illuminated the waters from where tired sailors were turning in from a day of toil…

For once he let silence, without music, settle over him. It was a brand new experience – he was not the star of attraction producing the sweetest tunes, but he was listening, instead, to the humming of crickets, the throbbing of ships' horns, and the rhythmic lapping of the incoming tide on the shore. Often he thrived on new experiences, yet today, in the eye of the storm of emotions that plagued his heart, the absence of his dear friend and confidant – his music – felt weird and disconcerting.

He lifted his violin, slid it into its niche below the angle of his jaw, and lifted his bow, but strangely enough, no music came. He waited as usual for a tune, a melody, even a single note, to rise in his heart out of his surroundings, anything that could dispel a heavy quietness. How often he'd simply gaze out at the hills, or cruise down a river, or sunbathe in the quiet of a country resort, and music would immediately fill his heart, depending on mood and occasion.

Tonight was different. He felt that his music had been extinguished, exhausted, evaporated, exterminated. Inspiration was drained from his soul, and his musical heart was a dried oasis, with only parched cracks in the soil to offer for any thirsty trekker. Slowly, he probed the events of the recent past, a cautious attempt to locate the cause of his musical dearth.

When was the last time he'd had a holiday? It must have been ages ago, before his parents sent him off to the Royal College of Music to 'develop his musical potential'. Before months on end of hours spent cooped up in his acoustically-perfect room practicing in private. Before weeks of rehearsals, with the orchestra, with the quartet, with his accompanist, with his tutor. Before whole concert seasons of two concerts a day, twenty-four seven, featuring the 'talented young musician from Singapore'.

When was the last time he'd seen music as an innocent pursuit, free of the toils of the world? It must have been in the days of his childhood, before stepping into the musical career had plunged him into a world of deception and irony. It was a great contradiction – he was sent to study the arts with the aim of appreciating them fully, but instead he garnered the darker sides of the profession. Before he realized that orchestras were plagued with scandals, before he found out that conductors swore at rehearsals, before he discovered the backstabbing among fellow musicians.

How he longed to be free from that cumbersome schedule, to truly enjoy music for what it was! How he longed to return to the musical fantasies of his childhood, where music transcended the realities of time and space, where music could take him beyond cartoons, beyond films, beyond toys, beyond fairy tales, over rainbows and past troll-ambushed bridges, into a land of sweet enjoyment.

Yet he knew that these were not to be. The musical world would never be the pure paradise that like-minded maestros envisioned. He gazed once more at the ocean swirling in the bay before him, with eyes that betrayed a discontented, disappointed, disillusioned, discouraged heart. What good was his talent when it delivered only a land of smashed dreams and ugly realities?

All his earthly possessions he would gladly exchange to be one with the fishes that he knew swam gracefully beneath the waters, spiraling among the corals and dodging in a colorful, innocuous universe, where the leering storms, waves and breakers that traversed above were but just ripples on the surface.