Time, time, time—summer hits the sweet spot when it comes to time, because looking back, it’s passed by far too quickly, but meanwhile, each singular day stretches on like an endless horizon.

I’ve fallen off the face of the earth for a while, but I’m back! I’ve just finished on a small letter series on music. I had considered writing it all on the blog, but there was some allure in knowing that only one person would read my work, and it would be subject to the whims of postal carriers; there’s always an unsuspecting chance for mail to be lost in the flurry of envelopes and exchanges. (Let’s hope not this time).

I’m also remembering what it was like to realize my relationship with music. It was some long night, eleventh grade, and I was slouched on my chair, idly wasting time on youtube videos instead of studying maths (or was it physics?). I came across Zimerman playing the Brahms Piano Concerto No. 1 with Bernstein and the Berlin Philharmonic. I clicked. As exhausted as I was, I nearly fell asleep during the long-winded orchestral introduction, but as soon as the strings dissipated, as soon as Zimerman began that haunting piano entrance, I must’ve stopped breathing. Something broke carefully within my chest. I was delirious, tired, but I couldn’t tear away from this low-resolution, dim, youtube video—I listened through the entire concerto, all 55 minutes. The whole experience left me light-headed, and I fell asleep on my laptop, woke up at dawn, and realized that I was, for lack of a better term, doomed. There wasn’t anything I’d be able to do that would tear me away from this. And now, years later, on an overcast summer afternoon, I’m typing this, trying to make sure that I don’t forget, and wondering where in the world I’ve been all these years. Music has always been home. How could I have forgotten? How could I have known until I left?