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Still Life
Live to Sing
Singing is an art. You have to pitch your voice to attain a desired effect. How you do that, determines whether you will receive accolades or a few ‘ripened’ eggs!
Like our next door teenager, who aims to be an
accomplished singer one day, by making it big on the music scene.
He exercises his vocal cords at odd hours. If you look at it my
way, he has already achieved his fifteen minutes of fame. In fact,
the other day the chaos lasted for a little more than half-an-hour,
as the neighbours barged in to protest. I guess you have to be persistent.
Getting famous or infamous matters little as long as you get into
the public eye. He is I suppose, on the right track.
I remember my passion for singing not very long ago. I wasn’t
exactly a bathroom singer, I even sang outside of it. The household
would then start flinging objects at random. I didn’t realise
they were meant for me, until one of them actually hit me between
the ears. This is not to describe how unsound my vocals were. I
realised early in life that you have to sacrifice one thing for
another. It was either my singing or me. If I am alive today, it
is because I decided against singing.
I believe there must be others like me, who were tempted by super-stardom
but eventually gave up their passion when forced with opposition.
I am of the opinion that writing is better than singing. You can
make a mark without making a noise.
As I scribble these notes onto my notepad, I can hear notes of a
different pitch originating from the teenager’s room next door.
I don’t suppose he has any particular reason to be singing
aloud at 2 o’clock past midnight. But the neighbours sure have
sufficient reason to wake up from their slumber and march in anger
to the teenager’s door. I can see rage written all over their
faces as they move in for the kill. You have heard of talent dying
young before. I am about to witness history repeat itself.
Read tomorrow’s headlines for more…
-Felixfoo