I wonder sometimes if the creation of art isn't the expression of the artist's individual self, but rather a forgetting of the self. It's something like what Tolstoy said; in viewing and appreciating art you are drawn into a privileged perspective where you feel the emotions of the creator, and all the other men before you who have viewed the art. In some sense, in joining this collective, you lose a bit of yourself. You aren't just you anymore, but viewer #4328012- you are now part of the community and privy to a secret group, but the price you must pay is part of your identity.

I find that I write best and play best when I'm not being self-conscious. Not in the socially awkward sense, but when I'm not conscious of myself writing, playing, drawing, being. When I wrote my KI essay the last time, I wasn't even conscious of what I was writing. I couldn't even read the words I was writing because my eyes were out of focus and I was just writing down my thoughts in droves and droves; thoughts that came from a source I knew not. In contrast, the last long passage was just an exercise in self-criticism; oh god I have no idea what I'm writing, in a bad way, this is terrible, I can't find the right word, would this sentence flow better like this...?

Am I playing this note right? Should I go louder? Does this line look right? Is the shading off? Does my dress make me look fat?

If you are conscious of your self, you can't enjoy the world.

I have a story that ties Moonlight together for myself: the first movement is me sitting along Singapore River reminiscing the past- it's like moonlight of the River Lucerne, said critics- and it is a prelude of things to come. It's not a chronological prelude, rather the prelude to a story told in hindsight. It is not a happy story (it's adagio sostenuto, come on); but neither is it sad- it is just pensive, reflective? The words are not coming.

Sometimes if I just let myself go and forget the story, I fancy I can hear motifs of bells- dong, dong, dong- in the upper notes. They're not an explicit melody line and it feels like they are far away, which adds to the reminiscing character. I've read interpretations that say the last two chords are like funeral bells- I think that might have influenced mine a bit, but I don't think they're funeral bells. They foreshadow the third movement. It's like a hint. You know the ending of the story before it even starts.

The second movement, to me, is a happy dance- if I were more romantic perhaps I would say a dance through summer fields, petticoats awhirl and summer hat in my hand, but this is Singapore and we do not have flower fields or petticoats. Perhaps just a dance out of reach, teasing, away from an umbrella? Smiles. Definitely smiles. You can't play this piece without wanting to quietly smile and without imagining things in bright colours, maybe even with an Instagram filter.

I've written about the third movement before- about the impending rush to an ending that is already contained within the opening line. I knew it, knew it the moment you said you had something to say. 10 pages, 10 goddamn pages of exposition, and my fingers get so tired, and there, it's done. And I play the final two chords and we know what the hint in the first movement was referring to.

Sometimes when I play- and I think this is when I play best- I don't focus on dynamics at all. I just move back and forth, in an imitation of performing pianists, but without the intent. I don't shape the music. It shapes itself. But you have to move, be flexible, for it to take on whatever shape it wants through you. It can't do that if you are sitting stiff like a rod. That's when I think I kind of get what Tolstoy meant.