I grew up loving to sing, but because the education system at that time didn't pay special attention to music, music class was always taken up by the math teacher, and music was just an "extracurricular interest". It wasn't until my first year of high school that a music teacher came to my school who had returned from studying in the United States. That day I heard the sound of a cello drifting from the end of the corridor, like someone scratching my heart with the strings, and couldn't help but follow the sound to the music classroom. She put down her bow and asked me, "Do you like music?" I blurted out, "I like to singļ¼" but when she asked me to sing a song, I panicked - I hadn't even practiced a full song. Finally she asked me to try "Memory" from Cats. So I sang the part I knew best, and to my surprise she listened and said, "You're a good storyteller. Singing isn't about who has a higher voice, it's about making people understand your story."
The words were like an open door for me. Later, I began to seriously study music and realized the true charm of music. Once I was listening to Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" in the middle of the night with headphones on, and I crouched down on the balcony of my dormitory and cried - those melodies were like a hammer that suddenly smashed open the rusted locks in my heart, and I didn't know if what came out was sadness or relief.
I feel that singing is the most honest way to deal with the world. Usually we all wear masks to live, people are close to each other when we squeeze into the subway, but no one speaks to each other. But when I sing on stage, there are always people who are touched by the music, or gently shake their shoulders to the rhythm. It's a magical moment when strangers suddenly share a secret.