Just for the Record

The weather today is slightly sarcastic, with a good chance of (A) indifference or (B) disinterest in what the critics say.

Random Panic At The Disco lyrics, you might say. But it's actually related to a certain topic. The weather today is insane, just as yesterday. And, as such, it is expected that my head would be acting up again. I've been sleeping until I can sleep no more. And yet, this head of mine is driving me insane.
My parents would often joke around and tell me I should work for the weather station or something, since whenever I get a headache, it is predicted that sudden rains would fall. Lo and behold, they have.
So I've been out from school for two days now. This is killing my grades, and this is only the start of the second quarter(mester) too.

You might be thinking what I'm doing now. So I'll tell you that I'm listening to Chopin, while typing this, and thinking that there's going to be a sudden stop, then a fierce, roaring wind with great rain after a few minutes. And--hello--it just happened.
That's how my headache works, I'm afraid.

After this, I should seriously take up a part-time job at NASA, or something, and predict the pattern of climate change, and say when the world is going to end.

But it isn't only the weather, or the headache that's making me cry. It's Chopin.

Whenever there's music playing, there's always that resounding wish to be able to play like that. Looking back on it, I've had every chance and every opportunity. But with the people of this world trying to destroy my parents, they've managed to destroy their children's dreams, as well.

I was around three or four when I first played Piano. I've watched my sister for some time study Piano, with a private teacher coming to our house just for the lessons. She had more of the opportunity and the time than I ever did. And yet, she didn't really use it.
She had to stop the private lessons, so we entered a music school instead. This time, I took the lessons too. Of course, I had to start the first level. I remembered this one practice piece I had. It only had the notes do and re, switching back and forth, played at different beats. One-fourth, one-half, one whole--those basic things that starter pianists should remember, like how the notes looked like, and how long they should be played.

...I'm sorry for such a sudden stop. But Chopin's Marche Funebre: Lento is playing right now. It made me recall the death of a dream, or a sort of comatose for it. Why?

It's because I stopped playing the piano.

I stopped, not because I wanted to, but because it's the outside force of destruction that had me here.

I was about to have my recital--the very first one. And I was wondering how that would have been like. I would be up on stage, and there would have been other students who are waiting at the back stage for their turn to perform. Their parents, teachers and my own would all have been there. I would have worn a dress, and I would have played Ice Capers, as I had practiced for some time.
But just in the middle of practicing, I had to stop. Comparing it to everything else, piano lessons and recitals are less important. Compare it to education, and to a fight against poverty and corruption--of course, I had to give it up.

But, damn, Chopin's Presto, with all the fast, complicated--yet unexpectedly transparent--notes are making me feel bad about myself. I just wish that I could play like that. Furthermore, I just wish I could compose like that.

I can write a thousand lyrics, think up a hundred tunes, but never could I understand, nor write in notes. I never had a chance to continue learning.

Actually, there was this one friend--a common friend with Gabriel on Fster--whose name was Kasturi. She was studying Piano, and she loves it. But she disliked musical theory because she thought it was boring.
And now as Chopin's Fantasie in F Minor Op. 49 plays in my ears, it makes my heart ache, and it makes me want to ask her, "How in the world can you say that?!"
Just to understand every note, every key, everything that governs composition, the body of music, and use it on your instrument--doesn't that excite you?

Music is a language. English isn't the true universal language, rather, it's music. It has its own alphabet, its own dynamics and morphemics, its own sound and accent. It's a language that everyone recognizes. And, as a poet and writer in English and Filipino, it has been my heart's joy to learn my languages, and use the knowledge in rhythm and word to create works that can permeate others' hearts.
But it has always been my desire to learn the language that is music.

How is it, that people, who have never learned music formally, can recognize music?

Why is it that it has always been music that is common in every mind?

Why does everyone know music?

But there are people who have learned the language, and forgotten it, like a Roman who used to speak Latin and has disregarded it, when Italian became the occupation of its tongue. And there are people who are learning it half-heartedly.

But there are people who fell in love with music, and yet, they cannot understand it. Yet, they long to do so.

I wonder, after all these years, would it still be possible for me to return to Piano?
But I know I'm too busy during the school year. I'll start during the next summer, in between the review for college entrance. It doesn't matter, I'll find a way. And I won't stop anymore.

I just hope that the outer forces of destruction won't strike me anymore.

If I am in the wrong, then testify to the wrong. When I am in the right, why do you strike me?

Ah, I guess Biblical quotations won't hurt.

Scherzo: Molto Vivace
Chopin

I guess you can consider this as a completely random post. But I just had to say how I felt.

If listening to Chopin comforts me when I have a headache, then why is it the same thing that strikes me, and hurts me every time?