The wind after dinner always pours in from the end of the corridor, stirring the gauze screen and carrying a scent where food, furniture, and the moonlit night mingle as one. The song I used to play on repeat would drift, faint and persistent, through evenings like this. Ever since then, even in places without wind, the moment that melody returns, light and conversation switch on as if someone pressed “play”; my senses slide along an invisible progress bar; that moment reappears before my eyes, uncannily intact. Only I know that feeling—what belongs to me is always singular. To me, “they”—those sounds—are not just melodies but a threadlike index to memory; they part layer after layer of haze and carry the past back in front of me. They form my chronicle.
But it is not mine alone. I have always been stubborn—stubborn about control; stubborn about the belief that I can create; stubborn about having a space that truly belongs to me. My standard for myself has never changed: when I see something, I don’t merely admire it—I want to take it apart, imitate it, and try to surpass it. The original impulse to create was simple: to preserve moments that are fading. If I refuse to dress it up as lofty, then it is simply the wish to satisfy my own taste for that style. My work is hardly welcomed by the world; the culprit—no, I shouldn’t call it that—the guide that set me on this path was the music game.
At first, I was content to be carried back by music, passively. Until one day, in what people call a “music game,” I saw sound for the first time—rhythm broken into shapes you could touch, dense drum hits pulling bands of light and shadow across the screen. In that instant，I realized that music doesn’t only need to be understood by the ear; it can be understood by the eye. I was no longer satisfied with recollection. I wanted to score these moments myself—not to entrust my memory to stories completed by others, but to write a melody for my own life that would not be lost. Sound and light woven together, fingertips alive, catching the moment without losing the groove—this is one of the visions I chase.
Of course there were many failures。 The versions of a single piece could fill an entire hard drive. Yet，with each failure，I learned more clearly where the “push” comes from. Good work needs polishing。I cannot serve up something unfinished just to appease others. Creating from the inside out—not for others, but from myself—was the original idea. Put another way, if my goal had been to please others, I would never have taken this road.
I don’t fully understand my own tastes yet, nor why “fate” set me on this path. To persist, to continue—to give my past self an answer and lay foreshadowing for the future—perhaps that is the “versioned answer” this journey offers (Mr. Thompson - rewrite the sentence; be less poetic. State what you think continuing down this “journey” might do for you; try to bring in an explicit statement about why you want to become a musical composer).
Now, when the melody that belongs to me sounds again, it still pulls me back, even though it has become something I have repeated hundreds, thousands of times. If I were to walk it again, I would still choose creation without hesitation—dive headlong into this bottomless well and keep reaching for the distant truth of art.