Two years ago I would be content if I had a fireplace to sit by and a well-lit desk to write at for my entire life. Whenever I thought about my future beyond college, it lay in the mahogany shelves that held books with crippled parchment pages. Rather, it was a future that regurgitated the romanticized image of a secluded scholar, an image of the past, endlessly trapping me in the counter-current of time.

Perhaps academia was going to be my destination. I will devote my life to the most sublime mission of all humankind: unveiling the mysteries of the universe. I shall fix my eyes on the “highest spheres that flow around us”, unwavering in my march towards the purest, untainted ideals of all time. Once it was certain that I was going to live and die as a scholar——

An obedient slave to the Tour d’Ivoire.

Erecting the Tower

We only start to connect with the world around us when we are shocked by its deviance from our own perception of utopia.

We have never ceased to strive for the vision, or even realization, of a utopia. Yet by the interplay of numerous external factors and the sheer nature of our differentiated minds, this goal appears to be and perhaps is already widely accepted to be unattainable. The chasm between people grew; though the veil of solidarity persists, it is now achieved by increasingly abstract notions than sympathy for one’s actual circumstance. It’s possible that your heart does not throb for the loss of a distant family member but leap at resonance with someone worshiping the same god, driven by the fervor in your heart which has its reflection perceived through another.

[As time progressed, reality starts to expand and divide itself into increasing layers. Where once in the past two individuals may see the same tree and rivers, now they see objects of entirely different natures. An environmentalist may see them as victims of human activity, where a businessperson may already be starting to plan their exploitation. Again, this is a particularly exaggerated example, but the specialization of subjects is beginning to peel the world apart, where we are gradually losing mobility as spectators. Here ends this tangent.]

As a compromise, the concept of an idealized society of intellectuals spontaneously emerged frequently across history. It takes many forms including Plato’s symposium, the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove, etc. It often starts as a religious or academic group sharing a common set of ideals, with its members isolated from outsiders. Einstein speaks of this concept: “In the temple of science are many mansions, and various indeed are they that dwell therein and the motives that have led them thither.”

Naturally, barriers appear between people with different opinions, backgrounds, and interests, as detailed in previous paragraphs. Yet the altitude of the ivory towers is often determined by the social status of those who hold it, rather than the validity of the collective ideal. This is further justified by the long tradition of historical elitism that highlights the deeds of those whose power is enough to secure their legacies: rulers, and the scholars/artists whose works are sanctioned by them. The ivory tower, by definition, tends to detach from those who disagree with it yet lacks power, in its vision and acts.

Such a place continues to project itself onto institutes in our modern world. Pictured as a place of intellectual sparks, conversation, the catalyst of innovation and moral goodness, it is expected that power and intervention are to their bare minimum and do not interfere with what truly matters. The group evolves from a small fraternity of similar ideals to a symbol of social influence, dominating the imagination of privileged students whose minds are free from the toils of earning a living.

Would we still want our minds and values to be led by people who are increasingly caught up in their tunnel vision of their “faultless scientific truths”?

Necessity/Inevitability of the Tower

The tower tends to sustain itself just like all other ancient institutions. Especially for certain fields of study, it will be a common or even an inevitable choice to remain in academia as a scholar. This mechanism allows people to make a living out of long-term goals in research & development and maintains a fresh supply of professionals in the field. Simple evaluation systems are also established: how many essays you have published and how prestigious the journals are becoming your indicators of a qualified scientist. Those with power have gained it through this “cursus honorum”: PhD, post-PhD, professor, tenure. We always like quantifiable things, so that we can quickly allocate limited resources. Like always we tend to fall towards an “optimum”, a non-stop churning state of inertia.

The tower must be placed in an environment endorsing intellectualism for it to sustain, or at least hold its previous prestige. Neglect will simply strike the tower down to chaos, not to mention criticism and even peaceful rumination. The abuse of monopoly power, sky-high prices of database access, the increasing competition and pursuit of elite universities just so one may conduct science in peace, not needing to be bothered by budgets that fluctuate with the external economy. There is no isolated tower for science to exist in a vacuum.

Though the tower is not without its merits, which brought its construction in the first place. People on the same page regarding background knowledge and personal theories can drastically improve the quality of discussion and collaboration. Yet it is precisely because of this assumption for everyone to be on the same page does the tower become a barrier and not a sanctuary. Without effective communicators, those inside the tower would only become increasingly frustrated at the “shortsighted” impatience of the public, beckoning for groundbreaking discoveries to justify their “impractical” use of social resources.

Those outside the tower may also stir up a wave of anti-intellectualism and conspiracy theories to fill in the gap of information. It is a justified urge, to keep up with the frontiers of science, whether for entrepreneurial or educational motivation. Buzzwords like “Quantum entanglement” permeate the high walls through headings that only flash by, and blend into the language of social media and daily life. Everyone deserves to know—— that they are part of something greater than themselves, that they too may bask in the glory of humankind even as they scurry through the stinking streets of the metropolis, forcing another smile to their corrupted superiors. It does feel nice to end everything with “for the truth of science” or “rationality”, wouldn’t you agree?

It is a luxury to hold onto intellectual curiosity and at the same time be able to indulge it, letting it lead you to wherever you feel like. Being a road leading to the ivory tower, it may also be the way out.

Oblivious, I scorned those who refused to exercise their autonomy, their enthusiasm that I believed to be their trusty oar while navigating the tides of life. Once I embraced fervent motivation as a virtue; now I learned to acknowledge it as a privilege. The freedom to explore interests, able to be relived from the pressure of employment, and the necessary resources to sustain a spark of curiosity- prerequisites that I once took for granted. Are all our moral ideals in its reality a privilege that trace back to self-appraisal, as we cherry-pick traits to assimilate into ourselves?

Similarly, I have come to admire and respect those who have learned to shed the arrogance of elitism in pursuing knowledge while preserving the inspiration in their hearts. I also became increasingly aware of how volatile my previous mental framework was, as it sought to expel any opinionated voice to preserve its self-righteousness. The things I was taught to scorn in science I reclaimed gradually as I tread the ruins of ancient civilizations on poetic feet—— and to inspect my godless heart once again.

I wonder how long it would take for me to overthrow my values yet again, and again, tirelessly shedding my previous beliefs like dead skin.

Thus I must pause and ruminate ——only then may I step into the bounds of the new world, dauntless.

Featured Image: Saint Francis of Assisi in Prayer, by Allori Christofano.

I know of him not by sight, but by ambiguous metaphors, wisps of rumors, and the dull pain in my chest whenever his name was mentioned.

Despite the many times I have looked upon his face, I could not recall a clear image. But I knew a lot. And through these fragmented statements, I was able to piece together a rough shape of what he is.

I know how the senators preyed upon him like wolves, how his voice resounded through the Curia like a sanguine seduction, tempting them to tear him apart like the Bacchanals. I know his name was volatile like the spices of the East, brushing upon everyone’s lips, jesting with scorns and mingling with praise. I know how the chisels imprison these pursed lips and furrowed brows upon lofty statues so that when he falls to the Senate floor, he shall fall to their feet like the marble scraps that the artisans chipped away.

That his voice which once commanded the world shall be dumbed. That the clanking tools of the sculptor shall speak for him.

That we, long after them, may live, and look upon him, with reverence or contempt. And some may call him a god, and some, a tyrant.

*This is a random passage I wrote in the past, but it’s March 15th and I wanted to post something for Caesar’s Assassination- so here it is.

Key Question: How does music shape one’s moral character and perception of society?

Key Ideas

– Kalokagathia: The unity of the beautiful and the virtuous.
– Nomos: The correct musical harmony or the “correct” social and moral values
– The Doctrine of Ethos: The belief that music has a profound impact on one’s emotions and character, affecting one’s will.

The Apollonian & Dionysian

A primal cultural tension in Ancient Greek myths and culture, Paul Henry Lang further builds on to this dichotomy (formalized in Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy out of the Spirit of Music) by contrasting the following:

This dichotomy comes from a myth about Marsyas, a satyr playing the aulos, who challenged Apollo, playing the lyre, to a music contest and ultimately fails because of his hubris. The story of the founding of the Aulos is pretty much well-described in the wikipedia article of Marsyas, so I will not reiterate it here.

The second reason why these two particular gods stood out is because of how they eventually became the ones used by the Romans for their own political narratives.

*Off topic Rome rant (but could potentially aid your understanding of this idea I’m trying to convey):

Mark Antony, Augustus’ polical rival who has aligned himself with Cleopatra, is seen with the ivy wreath symbolizing Dionysus, and serpents, a beast often attributed to Egyptians (Lucan’s De Bellum Civile). While the Egyptians may see him as the new wine god who brings joy and revelry, the Romans, who had endured the toils of civil war for long enough, frown at the careless libertine who seems hesitant to endure the silence of peace. Antony also impairs his reputation by being with a “foreign lover”, making the people question his pietas, or civic loyalty.

On the other hand, Augustus aligns himself with Apollo, conveniently amplified by the metaphor of Caesar Jupiter that has been floating around (though Caesar became a god of his own). A god of the city, his propaganda involves an embodiment of the old Roman virtues, as contrary to Antony. It is this idea of showing the idealistic side of what made the Romans Roman (even though their corruption shapes the Roman identity just as much as their civic virtues) which made Augustus successful.

Tying this back to Apollo, he is not only the god of the sun, but also a Greek god. Dionysus is, on the other hand, often described to be an Asiatic cult. This hint of Orientalism will continue to be discussed in the next section.

Understanding the “spirit” of these two gods with its complexity/nuances has the potential to lend a comprehensive perspective into the mentality of the Hellenistic influence.

Tribal Temperaments

The Greeks base their music on seven modes, kind of like the majors and minors we speak about today.

• Ionian
• Dorian
• Phrygian
• Lydian
• Mixolydian
• Aeolian
• Locrian

They are a part of the Aristoxenian tradition, named after Aristoxenus. His book Elementia harmonica provides a systematic way for us to understand Ancient Greek music. Instead of being merely patterns of certain arbitrary intervals between notes, they mean more to the Greeks, including Plato:

As we banished strains of lamentation, so we may now banish the mixed Lydian harmonies, which are the harmonies of lamentation; and as our citizens are to be temperate, we may also banish convivial harmonies, such as the Ionian and pure Lydian. Two remain—the Dorian and Phrygian, the first for war, the second for peace; the one expressive of courage, the other of obedience or instruction or religious feeling.

Plato, The Republic Book III

• Ionian, Lydian: “convivial”
• Dorian: war, courage
• Phrygian: peace, obedience, religious feeling
• Mixolydian: lamentation

Notice here how Plato assigns characters to each mode. In modern day we may also say something along the lines of major = joyful and majestic, while minor = elegant and melancholic. However, at the time, because of the idea of the Doctrine of Ethos, the modes are seen beyond their individual palettes of emotion but instead as active parts of the citizen’s morality.

Among all of those modes, Lang emphasizes that the Dorian is favored by the Greeks because it evokes “manly poise, temperance, and simplicity”. In some ways I feel like this coincides partly with Winckelmann’s idea of “noble simplicity and quiet grandeur”.

Plato’s ethic view of music is elaborated further by:

And as we reject varieties of harmony, we shall also reject the many-stringed, variously-shaped instruments which give utterance to them, and in particular the flute, which is more complex than any of them. The lyre and the harp may be permitted in the town, and the Pan’s-pipe in the fields.

Plato, The Republic Book III

Here we see how the flute is rejected by Plato in an ideal society because of how it “give[s] utterance” to “intemperate” melodies that may affect one’s mind. This is also part of the reason why the lyre is more well-known than the Aulos; the Greeks like to use it too as a part of their self image. The Aulos is often seen as associated with their Asiatic enemies, Thus not only is it rejected by the Greeks, but also by later cultures who see themselves as the descendants of Hellenism.

Solon, one of the “seven sages of Greece”, pushes this further; he seeks to promote morality and responsible citizenship with music. He also prohibited slaves to study music so that it becomes exclusive education for the Athenian citizens, specifically the nobility. You see- everything has the potential to rise, to become a City Wall.

The Nome (νομος)

The lyre is the preferred instrument when it comes to accompanying the rhapsodes (performers who orally recite epic poetry) as they are reciting epic poetry. Music starts in and continues to be closely intertwined with literature. The lyre is often used explicitly as a literary image in Epic poems, which is why we associate it with Hellenistic culture.

The rhythm of the Nome, like many forms of music at the time, is catered to the poetic meter of the lyrics. One of the earliest pieces of program music (music that follows a narrative form beyond itself) is in fact the Pythic Nome, a five-movement piece that depicts the victory of Apollo over the python. The five movements are as follows:

1. Preparation
2. Challenge
3. The fight
4. Praise to Apollo
5. Victory dance

At the start it was played by the Cithara, then there were also versions for Auletes. Which begs the question, how exactly did music sound like at the time?

Hearing the Ancients

There are many expert reconstructions of Ancient Greek instruments online (Youtube) that I find quite amazing. One of the things I notice is that the lyre is tuned to the Dorian key, which proves the penchant for Dorian key the Greeks had.

A music dominated by Heterophony (mainly the same melody with some occasional dissonance), it would be difficult for us to understand their way of interacting with music. The lack of rich harmonies charted their attention to the slight inflections of melodic lines, including pitch differences even less than the half-notes of today.

One famous musician emerges from this age: Archilochus. His music, like those of his age, corresponded closely to words with occasional embellishments between songs. He uses iambs and trochees to create a sense of motion and fast rhythm.

This is the end of the post thanks for reading! I think there’s more to discuss about Dithyrambs but Lang glossed over that part and I want to have some sense of fidelity for his choice of content. Cheers to music and to the Greeks!

I arrive at many books, media, information, regardless of its topic: history, music, philosophy, science… confronted by the bold declaration of civilization. I have been taught to be skeptical about the connotations of this word: The Greco-Romans were often looked upon, occasionally including Ancient Egypt and China, but most of the time (for me) it evokes the images of a well-functioning democracy, marble pillars, and the temperate winds of the mare nostrum.

I acknowledge the despair that Adichie captured in The American Embassy, the anxiety of being denied entrance. I recall when my parents and I stood in line for the Visa, they seemed stressed out even when they reassured me there was nothing to worry about. I grew up with a group of students who strive for the top universities abroad, only to stuff away their “Chinese” identity as if it were a deformation when it comes to preparing for applications.

We speak of the “East-Asian Experience” as if it were a collective memory. In some ways, it is- the looming shadows of inequality that are only temporarily cast away by economic development, the constant competition between peers, not to mention the condition of being in an international school, constantly pestered with doubts on cultural identity. At times we seek to jump outside the box of sexist and unreasonable traditions and break the silence of our own version of a mos maiorum, only to be confronted by the blatant knowledge of looking at myself in a mirror and seeing an Asian face. And here I go again, using the lexis from Ancient Roman politics- something I know even better than the history of my birth country.

And thus I struggle to balance myself on the wall between civilizations, unable to step onto the soil of either one. I dangle my legs midair as neither citizen nor barbarian, for whichever land I choose to step onto, the other may be closed to me ever since. Perhaps.

When Scipio Aemilianus returned to Rome only to discover the people turned on him, he declared that he would not be bothered by whom “Italy is only a stepmother”. Among his compatriots are people like Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus who had shed blood to advocate Roman citizenship for the Italian residents, so did the many who later fought in the Social War. The Romans did not perish from some foreign enemy; they were severed by the city walls, the limbo between the sacred pomerium and the barbarian lands, devoid of civitas.

The city, be it the polis or the urbs, finds its way to my attention wherever I turn to, blinding me with their light. The city is a complex amalgamation of identity, language, and ethnicity. Gasset, in his book The Revolt of the Masses, defines that “Civilization is, before all, the will to live in common.” And none other form embodies this spirit better than the city life. The engagement with such an overwhelming number of other people, strangers, and neighbors, each day is vastly different from the rural/suburban life, thrusting oneself into an endless, inevitable torrent of differences. Without the affirmation of one’s unique identity by the environment, one could only rely on the programmatic schedule each day to gain a sense of control in life.

The city might as well be the pivot of the fragile equilibrium of prosperity, or the beginning of cracks and flaws that will eventually devour the entire Empire, just as how it once sustained it like the obstinate heartbeat of the swain. It drains resources from its surroundings and, subsequently, draws more people to migrate towards these gatherings.

The city embodies the anxiety of being exposed to the elements. Unable to contain nature with the limited walls, we instead isolate ourselves by trapping ourselves in them. It is not only a public space, but also an unspoken concensus, a dense blanket to muffle our fear of the “other”. Their fear was directed towards an idealized opponent – not the Amazons, nor the Cimbri, nor the Gauls – but a metaphorical anti-Rome. It no longer mattered if the opponent was belligerent or pacifist, strong or weak; they are not Rome, therefore they are barbaric.

Why fear the “other”? Why does Ovid sigh when he sees “the barbarians live amongst us, without discrimination, and also occupy more than half the houses”? There are many questions that I still have, and many I will investigate as I delve deeper into my experience of reality.

Why fear the bounds of city walls when the sun shines on both sides alike?

“Every civilization is a synthesis of man’s conquest of life.
Art is the ultimate symbol of this conquest,
the utmost unity man can achieve.”

Brilliantly written by Paul Henry Lang, Music in Western Civilization encapsulates aspects of “Western” society and culture with insights derived from a profound knowledge of music.

As the title suggests, this book follows the traditional historical narrative of “Western civilization”, from the Classical era, and Middle Ages, to the Renaissance, and the more well-known realms of Baroque, Classical, Romantic, and beyond.

Being mainly Eurocentric, the book (by the time I wrote this I’ve read about 25%) follows a nationalist perspective as it describes the various styles of music. The author is especially observant in characterizing the “cultural impetus” that arises from different parts of Europe. There is also a tendency to characterize different ethnicities with different characteristics in the book, which I would recommend taking with a pinch of salt.

The book itself is less demanding in terms of musical theory itself but instead in the knowledge of history & humanities; people without professional training may also benefit greatly from reading it. Compared to most music textbooks, this book includes more nuanced explanations that start from Ancient Greek music, Byzantine, and the Patristic Period. Its emphasis on music, not as a technical subject but as an aspect of history, may prove to be a valuable source for scholars of all the Humanities even beyond Musicology.

Blogposts marked with [MWC] will be dedicated to summarizing and explaining parts of the book, including key terminology, notable individuals, and external links that I found useful in my reading. I will also include any other comments or thoughts that I may have in the process, attempting to make the intellectual wealth of this book more accessible and easily navigated.

Some thoughts after visiting the Metropolitan Museum & MFABoston

We are enslaved by our lofty ideals when we seek to tame reality with its chains.

For all the things that I love, idealism lies at one intersection of these points, myself at the other.

I was investigating the different marble busts across the different dynasties during the Roman Empire.

First were the Republicans, whose wrinkled faces represent a conservationist take on morality and politics. They valued the old Republican ideals and sought to convey their authority through age and experience. One of the interesting exhibits I encountered was a bust of a politician, whose features such as a broad forehead and narrow chin resembled Julius Caesar. It was made this way to show his support/sympathy for Caesar’s political party, the Populares.

Then, Augustus started looking back to the Greeks- the youthful, vigorous athletic figure. He leaned toward Hellenistic idealism; he merged his visage into Apollo’s. He was the sun, the radiance that led Rome to peace and prosperity. He was the destined one to bring a golden age, blazing with the brilliance of the Julian star.

This reminiscence of the ancient Greeks continues to weave into Roman Imperial sculptures and plastic art. Hadrian and the Five Good Emperors adapted the Greek philosopher’s style, with their curly hair, ample beard, and serene eyes. The addition of drills and pupils made their figure look more erudite.

Enter the Severian Dynasty and Caracalla’s bust. The military figure displays their short stubbed chin, furrowed eyebrows, and simple haircut. The cruelty in their gaze matches the Emperor’s need to quickly establish an authoritative figure. It reflects the turmoil and constant warfare that the empire was enduring at the time.

Females also change, in terms of their facial features, hairstyle, and expression. What is interesting is that I find early statues of Athena to resemble Buddha (I later discovered that indeed there was some Hellenistic influence when depicting statues- turns out my intuition works well enough).

The image of an ideal male shifts throughout the years in such a detailed and conspicuous manner that it is hard not to be enticed to learn more about them. So that’s why I am so caught up in it- it comes from the same intellectual impulse as the one that pushed me to study physics. It also brings a similar sense of euphoria when the dots finally connect.

Our ideals are a conclusion to what we value. The ideal government reflects our values of an ideal life for an individual and the equilibrium of everyone’s interests. The ideal form embodies biological and psychological traits that we deem to be suitable for that person’s role (insert random rant about gender here). The ideal model or theory represents the simplicity we expect reality to adhere to.

Ideals and abstractions are the very things we value because we believe that we, as humans, are capable of comprehending the entire complexities of our surroundings. Having the power to simplify things and classify certain things as “trivial” gives us a feeling of control, as if we know the whole picture and we have the right to dictate what matters and what does not.

So here comes the problem. We think we know the whole picture and what matters. But do we?

We are united by collective ideals as a nation, hence the rise of nationalism. We direct our efforts to aspire to the ideal life, yet we neglect the traits that we deem to be outside our “collection of ideal traits”. Not only might we judge ourselves based on this collection of traits, but we also force others into this rigid cage.

But as we huddle around the radiant beacon of our collective ideals, we may forget that the light shines on our skin just as it does on the lofty towers- and equally there befell its warmth.

I deemed myself to be a romantic. To that young troubadour, the windows of the classroom were not glass panes, but an elaborate canvas of the drifting clouds that implied the many toils of the observer’s experience. With my words, I crafted paper figures laden with connotative meaning and symbolism; they were puppets that fell under the sway of my turbulent mind. There I was a vain lord of purple prose, a pseudo-poet whose lines had woven her own gilded cage.

I was to some extent blinded by this excessive simulation, a world of senses that I suffocated myself in. One moment I could be sitting at a desk admiring the peculiar feeling of the nib of a pen crossing the margins, and yet another moment I am there with the music, pining for the unrequited affection of a proud and distant lover. I copied pieces of German poetry onto my notebook, despite not being able to understand most of it without the aid of the internet.

I always walked in the rain, eager to hear their gentle knocks on the surfaces around me.

I didn’t “feel” the rain cling to my arm, nor did I “see” the waterdrops that fell from the sky. I perceived the world through symbols, through metaphors, and through complex themes that I could comprehend. The rain drenched my clothes, but not just as water upon the usual school uniform, but as blood would smear the garments of a medieval knight, or as the tears of a maiden did upon the collar of her fine silk blouse.

I never saw stars in the city I lived in, but wherever I went, I always believed that they were up there somewhere, looking over me. Just as how, even on days when the sunlight poured bountifully, I would imagine that I walked in drizzling rain.

I can see the faint stars above me, yet I never dreamed of reaching them or being with them in any way. For when I looked up at them there were no roads that were directed upwards, only ones that sprawled horizontally. The stars provoked a yearning within me, which I hastily tried to satisfy with mimics of their radiance. I may sprint through the mist to coat my eyes with droplets, so that the refractions of worldly brightness may scatter into my pupils alike those heavenly messengers. Yet it was too dreary, and I could not look long at them, for the tears rolled down my cheeks and brought the starlight with them. So eventually the meaning of sprinting evaded me, and I chose to stay stationary.

“It is not meant to create a powerful effect: it is rather a Romance, calm and melancholy, giving the impression of someone looking gently towards a spot that calls to mind a thousand happy memories. It is a kind of reverie in the moonlight on a beautiful spring evening.”

And yet I searched into the memories of others, obscurely alluded by eloquent verses. My own memories were worthless; it is only through others’ pasts that I can piece together a narrative dignified enough to be worthy of reverie. I can be the one who plucks the blood-stained rose and seeks after that courtly lover, or I can be the nightingale who thrusts themselves upon that rose and drains their blood. So that whenever I gaze down at the rose in my hand, I can feel its pricks upon my heart, still beating obstinately. But is it my heart or the others’ heart?

I am, simultaneously, the swain and the raven with a rose between their beak. And that rose of idealism burst open with the venomous pollen of rationality.

Until that point, I believed I would become a musician or an author. Or maybe even a poet. I did not know my future, but I knew I was obsessed with that rose within my hand and sought to plant it in firm soil for it to develop and stem even more.

Then the rain stopped. Bushes of rose vines whose stems enclosed me had shielded me from the rain. The mist dispersed in the presence of a strong gust, which had spread the pollen to even farther corners of the earth. My eyes failed to veil their vision with the thin mist, and now I could no longer deceive myself of seeing starlight. All I could see was the scorching sun and the flaring torches in a distant village.

I loved to write. But since that moment anything I write and have written seemed so frivolous, so blatantly excessive, that I dared not to call it “creative writing” but would rather classify it as blobs of deoxygenated blood clots that came out through the larynx and spilled onto the paper. I felt like I suddenly lost the ability to feel the excitement of words, the jubilant spirit of rhymes that I had grown dependent on.

One would think that my muse abandoned me, but perhaps they instead offered me a choice. It took me quite a while to pick up the courage to write for myself again, which I did by the time I turned fifteen. By now I realized that I was not writing for myself back then, since all my confusion came from the lack of a voice- and that void of opinions, perspective, and self is what made those words suddenly pale. How could someone before a dusty mirror see other images of beauty when they cannot even descry their own complexion? The heartbeat of another will be fast overwhelmed by the ambiance no matter how hard I try to preserve it.

The mirror shattered and took a long time to be restored. Yet my departing muse’s evanescent shadow in the subsiding mist led me to take my first step on the path that I may have been destined to take. I still love Chopin, nonetheless. That path behind me that I had come from was strewn with countless instances of him providing me with consolation and companionship, and I am still grateful to have fallen in love with his music. That path still guides me to this day.