For the first time in a long while, I felt the yearning to pen something quickly before I forgot the importance of this moment. I had been putting off watching Ryuichi Sakamoto’s Opus for a while, just like how I have locked sad creative fantasies away after too much interaction of that in real life, for a season of rest, relaxation and potential healing.
Nearing the anniversary of his death, an opportunity came up to watch the performance in a cinema, which felt somewhat necessary, almost. Quieting the noise of the world, I unstrapped my watch, turned off my phone and placed both feet on the ground (laugh all you want, but it felt respectful for the mastery of his work) for an hour and forty plus minutes. Funnily enough, it was just six strangers; all loners, sitting in a neat vertical row. I wondered if anyone else noticed.
His performance brought me back to moments in my small, tiny life when I had loved and lost, and each time my mind wandered, it found its way back through his music. Unexpectedly, I teared at the beginning, and found myself weeping near the end. For decades now, I’ve been deeply in love with his delicate music, constantly encapsulating emotions where words seem to fail.
Upon reflection, I have to say that ageing has given emotions a much more pronounced presence in my life. My days of black and white appear less and less, realising that we tend to live in the greys. Things are tinged with multiple sensibilities, which also seem to create more beautiful, holistic imagery of our fleeting lives. Well, besides ageing (or experience, if you want to be kind about it), I’d have to say that experiencing grief in its fullness will also unlock a certain kind of emotive capability in you, if you let it. The last phrase truly being the kicker.
Denise Taw 