I trace a raindrop following gravity down the windowpane, a lonely tear, a hankering for a lost moment. Stepping outside, I collect the perfect droplet on my fingertip and view the world as if through a lens. Hazy, rinsed sky, majestic treetops. Gentle nostalgia for childhood, when mornings were a gateway to fire-breathing dragons in the sky or golden-haired mermaids in the ocean, when rivers were for skimming stones across the surface, and the rain created puddles in which to splash with abandon. When anything was possible.


Mid-January 2022 my diary entry read: The piece has been selected for ‘Premier 3 Projects’. Sounds like it has to do with water. Right now, it’s a piece for solo piano, feels wrong to actually orchestrate.


Sometimes our thoughts, when left to their own devices, strive towards an elusive moment like a ripe apple just out of reach or an itch that cannot be scratched. With my birthday fast approaching, I find myself looking backwards more often than usual. Am I working on this piece from the present or the past? 


A week later, I wrote: Sometimes the music controls what is to come. Sometimes I control the direction. The motto is not to bother about it. Beautiful, harmonious, and melodic.


When it rains and I raise an umbrella to the sky, are the rainclouds controlling me or am I living in the moment? This piece and I feel like drops in the ocean, riding the foamy waves, and hissing gently across the shore, gathering pearly shells and slick seaweed together, holding hands as we race back with the tide.


This is not a small, fragile, piano piece; it’s not ‘the well’ but rather ‘the river’. By mid-February, I added the comment to my diary: It’s dramatic and full of emotion. Perfect.


Without my diary, I would be trapped in thoughts from ten years ago, possibly longer, with an almost-fear of having misplaced something important.


But lately, I have learnt that routines and schedules are not constraints, they are simply moments to dance around. We make memories during the interludes, realising that anything is still possible, it only depends upon the angle from which we view the rain.


Moments are not lost … never lost … they are reaped, and ‘Gentle Nostalgia’, which began as a raindrop, has evolved into a river.


There is a story in this piece: my story.