The thought of not being able to sit on that same brown suede stool, and engage in the same profound experience, isolated from the rest of society’s craze, overwhelms me. The thought of grazing my fingertips on my grandfather’s piano and not experiencing the same magic, the same serenity, the same feeling, frightens me. The thought of getting consumed by society’s perpetual pace, and not capturing that same divine tranquility from the fused noises of strings in a crafted ivory box, simply scares me.

As I continue to mature and saturate my mind with the college process, my studies, and my social endeavors, I know that life may often hinder my ability to connect to this intangible love of mine. Yet, I hope that as I grow, and that as I face life’s hardships and ever-demanding obstacles, I will take the time to still enjoy the bliss of music.

I will never forget sitting side by side with my father on our stool. My father bequeathed this love unto me, and I know that from the passion in his eyes it is something that we should truly treasure and strive to hold on to.

I once wrote a letter to my “future me.” I vividly recall myself underlining a key component that I stressed to be vital to my growth. And that very item was the innocent, sincere passion that I garnered throughout my youth for music.

I wonder sometimes: what if I lose that touch, that genuine embrace, that gentle coupling I molded as I grew up? From playing piano since first grade to lying asleep at night listening to Trevor Hall’s so poignant grace, to singing in the shower envisioning myself one day playing in a crowded concert hall to sitting in my Music Theory class fathoming this universal language, I continue to etch a more personal connection to music each and every single day.

The mere notion of one day waking up bereft of the ability to feel the pounding rhythms in my heart or in my mind or in my feet, terrifies me. If I grow up and lose that feeling, I will forever know that somewhere I made the wrong turn. The thought of losing something tangible is scary, but how can you quantify the loss of something so elusive that you cannot even grasp it with your fingertips?