SNYO people read this. please?

Dear Readers,
today theokwek the composer has taken a break, but theokwek the writer is back! In the rich essay below, he draws inspiriation from Mr. Lim Soon Lee, the director of the Youth Orchestra in which he plays a minor role, and Alan Choo, recent soloist at a YO Concert. Parts of this essay - the daydreams, the minor characters and the teachers - he draws from his personal experience.
The worst of editors.
The Straight Times Editor.

He'd had many childhood dreams, of one day walking up on stage, a hypothetical princess on his arm, violin in hand, and playing the most brilliant of romances as she danced to his beat. But as he strode purposefully across the glided floor, at an age where such dreams were but a flicker of the past, he realized that the 17th-Century Stradivarius tucked expertly in the crook of his arm was his first and only love.

Standing tall for his seventeen years, he gave a deep bow to the furiously applauding audience – he could see thousands of hands, beating in anticipation in the dim lighting of the concert hall; thousands of faces lighting up in congratulation and encouragement, excited as one for him, a representative virtuoso of his nation's new generation of music-makers.

His eyes, burning bright with a flurry of emotions, scanned the crowd. Since his childhood, his parents had said his flawless eyesight and perfect memory were rare gifts, and with these his genius brain had captured and 'downloaded' the techniques and expressions of all the great masters he had ever watched, translating them into his own playing.

Today these talents served a different purpose. As his eyes – eyes that immortalized endless stamina and hope – flashed across the waiting faces before him, they lit with silent recognition and mirth as his teachers and parents beamed at him from the audience. He noted subconsciously that the only two teachers he'd ever had were sitting next to each other.

Different they were – one was a child of post-Cultural Revolution China, who had learnt her craft in the secrecy of the night, while the other found her niche in post-war Manchester, a member of the prestigious Halle Orchestra. Yet, he could not help but thinking, they were infinitely similar – both burning with the same pride and passion for teaching and learning, both dedicated pedagogues to countless aspiring violinists, both carrying on the age-old tradition of instruction in the arts.

He turned to his orchestra, one he'd played with for six years, from a back-desk second violinist in the Training Ensemble he'd risen slowly and steadily through the ranks, impressing all with his graceful, effortless technique and further still, his approachable, humble nature. Two virtues, he reflected to himself as he stood, at last, at their head, that he still lacked severely in.

First glancing at the oboist for the customary A, he tuned his violin carefully and smiled at the orchestra. He winked at the lead cellist, a best friend with whom he'd played countless duos since they were classmates in Primary School, one whom he felt he would have known better than his own brother. If he had had a brother.

His smile broadened as his eyes met those of the younger members, the next generation of the Youth Orchestra's leaders. The harpist, back-desk violins and violas, and that bright young trumpeter had all just joined, yet he felt an indescribable affinity with them, and their eyes reflected the same earnestness that glistened in all the other players.
At last he grinned at the concertmaster, his co-leader in whom he could place full confidence to lead the orchestra after he left to pursue his music. Their months of playing, leading and directing the orchestra together flashed back to him, and for the first time in his life he longed to go for rehearsals once again.

His heart bursting with renewed confidence, he bowed to the conductor; to his own shock and surprise he bowed to the beloved Maestro with the same inflection as he would have bowed to an equal, a colleague in music and not a leader. With sudden happiness, he saw that Maestro returned his bow at the same angle, and a nod of approval that said everything – a nod that expressed pride, faith and hope in this talented boy.

He turned back to the audience, and in a flash, all was quiet. In his mind's eye he saw Maestro giving that familiar cue, and immediately, the orchestra behind him began the introduction. He closed his eyes, and found warm tears streaming down his cheeks.

But before long, even these were lost and forgotten – what were drops of salty tears in the presence of beautiful and awe-inspiring music, music that reflected the firm bonds that traversed status and borders, firm bonds that linked every musician in a common passion, a common love.