<p class="ql-block">Leaning into the hush of twilight, I let the violin’s ethereal strains weave their way through the room like smoke—each note a fragile thread stitching together beauty and brevity, a melody that lingers like the ghost of a kiss. It calls to mind Céline Dion’s voice, that volcanic force of nature now weathered by storms unseen; she may wither like autumn leaves, as we all must, but her musique (/myzik/, music; French IPA)? It’s the lighthouse that outlives the tempest, the kind of timelessness that makes poets scribble in margins and philosophers scratch their chins. “Musique is the moonlight in the gloomy night of life,” as Beethoven once grumbled, and ain’t that the truth? Even Alan Tam, that ageless dynamo with a grin sharper than a tailor’s shears, will one day trade his stage for silence—but those anthems? They’ll still be blaring from car radios when our bones are dust, defying the clock like rebellious teens skipping curfew.</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">And then there are the titans—Ronaldo, Jordan—the kind of icons who made us believe immortality was a jersey number away. Now they’re just shadows in highlight reels, reminders that even gods wear out their welcome. Time is a thief, sure, but he’s also a brutal poet, isn’t he? Lately, my siblings and I have been swapping stories over lukewarm coffee, clutching our achy knees like they’re rare relics: “My back’s stiffer than a board left out in the rain,” “I need glasses just to read the damn cereal box.” Meanwhile, the kids are tying knots in church pews, their laughter loud and unscarred, as if the world’s still a playground. It’s a funny old dance, innit? The young stepping into the spotlight while Mom and Dad fade into the wings, like actors in a play where the script flips faster than a coin. “Youth is wasted on the young,” Oscar Wilde smirked, but maybe the real kicker is that age is wasted on the alive—we’re all just renting space between “hello” and “goodbye.”</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">There’s a tinge of bittersweet nostalgia in that, like sipping whiskey that burns going down but warms the soul. We gripe about creaky joints and forgotten names, yet watch our kids’ weddings with misty eyes, half mourning the past, half marveling at the future they’re building. As sure as the tide, the cycle turns: roots grow deep as branches reach for the sky. Maybe the magic isn’t in outrunning time but in letting its rhythm move us—like that violin tune, soaring above the chaos, reminding us that while bodies break and stars dim, the musique (/myzik/, music; French IPA) we leave behind? They’re the only thing that lasts. So here’s to the musique, the madness, and the messy, magnificent ride—may we hum until the lights go out, and then some.</p>