[Music] Thirty Years of Secrets

Author: JEFFI CHAO HUI WU

Time: June 26, 2025, Thursday, 10:29 AM

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[Music] Thirty Years of Secrets

On an evening in October 2019, I walked into the study. The afterglow outside was slowly fading, and the light in the room was somewhat dim, so quiet that even the faint scent of wood from the old guitar in the corner was particularly clear. That guitar, which had accompanied me for many years, still quietly leaned against the wall. Its surface bore a few subtle scratches, and the wood, enriched by the passage of time, appeared even more mellow. Those scratches were not glaring; instead, they resembled stamps of time, silently recording the once-unknown trajectories of youth.

I instinctively reached out to pluck a guitar string. The moment my fingertips touched it, the sound gently overflowed, still so tender, so pure, like the echo I heard thirty years ago on a quiet afternoon at the end of a serene corridor, when sunlight filtered through the window in mottled patterns. I paused for a few seconds, suddenly deciding that today, I would record a video, casually playing a piece of "Scarborough Fair." No rehearsal, no plan, no deliberately crafted emotions; I simply sat down, placed the guitar on my lap, adjusted my posture, and then let my fingertips follow the path of memory, slowly pressing down each familiar chord. The melody flowed gently, like those stories sleeping deep in time, awakening little by little with an unspoken warmth.

After finishing the video, I uploaded it to my Moments, feeling very calm, hardly thinking there would be any response. But soon, messages came pouring in like a tide—friends, classmates, and people I hadn't been in touch with for a long time, one after another leaving comments filled with surprise and disbelief. Some asked in astonishment, "Did you play this?" Others laughed and said, "I always thought your guitar was just for show; I didn't expect you could actually play." There were also those who questioned, "Haven't you never learned music?" More often, it was old classmates leaving messages, saying that as they listened, tears started to fall. Some said, "It suddenly reminded me of that old classroom in middle school, of the me who was too shy to speak but always bowed my head to copy the scores."

Looking at the lines of text on the screen, I felt a bit dazed. For thirty years, I have never told anyone that I can actually play the guitar, nor have I ever explained that the guitar now wrapped in time was bought by my father with an entire month's salary in 1984. That year, I had merely mentioned in passing, "The school has started a guitar class." At that time, my father was taciturn and said nothing profound; he simply brought home that brand new guitar a few days later and casually said, "Didn't you say the school has a guitar interest class? Go give it a try." It was such an emotionless encouragement that set me on a long journey of practice from then on.

In fact, at that time, I didn't particularly like music, nor could I understand the complex staff notation. I simply didn't want to disappoint my father's sincere expectations, so I signed up for the school's guitar class. Every day after school, I would quietly hold that guitar, pressing on the fretboard, practicing the fingerings over and over again, memorizing them in the clumsiest way possible, until I could play dozens of songs completely. There were no performances, no audience; it was a time of practice that belonged entirely to me, like a silent pact. There were no words between my father and me, but the strength of my fingertips during each practice was a silent response to his words, "Go give it a try."

Over the years, I have never taken the initiative to bring this up, not out of inferiority, nor out of forgetfulness, but because I believe that true passion does not require noise and proclamation; it is merely a long-lasting wait and a deep-seated persistence. That day, after playing "Scarborough Fair," I looked at the faint red marks on my fingertips from the strings, and I suddenly understood that these thirty years of silence were not concealment, but a kind of waiting, a waiting for the melody deep within myself, waiting for the right moment, waiting for a moment when the melody could flow freely.

After the video was released, more and more people told me that the piece not only strummed the strings of the instrument but also touched a long-sealed corner of their hearts, awakening the unspoken secrets and unfinished dreams of their youth. I suddenly realized that this is not just a song; it carries the naive starting point of my journey thirty years ago and echoes my father's seemingly plain yet sufficiently firm words from back then.

Thirty years of secrets were thus heard on that unintentional evening. I did not explain, nor did I deliberately respond to my friends' surprise and emotion; I simply put the guitar back in its place, gently wiped away the fine dust on its body, and silently told myself that this melody had never left, it was just waiting for the moment to be awakened again.

Source: http://www.australianwinner.com/AuWinner/viewtopic.php?t=696525