This first real session back wasn’t born from discipline or inspiration. It came after Switzerland.
After Interlaken, Zermatt, Zürich.
After standing on Matterhorn Glacier Paradise with wind biting through bone, feeling like the sky was within arm’s reach.
After trains, luggage, platforms, Christmas markets, MTV 80s in hotel rooms, and the strange quiet of not touching a guitar at all — despite carrying a Spark Go and Audiokit halfway across Europe.
Home didn’t mean rest immediately.
Home meant laundry.
Wet Singapore air. Winter clothes that refused to dry. Luggage sprawled across the floor like unresolved chords. Days of unpacking, washing, waiting. The kind of domestic clutter that doesn’t just take up space — it takes up headspace. I wasn’t frustrated with music. I was frustrated with everything that stood between me and it.
So I didn’t play.
Not really.
Except for the 2012 black AVRI Strat on the rack — unplugged, within arm’s reach. Five minutes here, five minutes there. No amps. No intention. Just fingers reminding themselves they still belonged.
Only when the bags were finally tucked away, when the house stopped feeling temporary again, did it happen.
That evening, I pulled out Spring.
Straight into the Fender Pro Junior. No pedals. No signal chains. Knobs dimed on the guitar. Amp loud enough to breathe. Tone wide open. Old-school, no safety net.
And I didn’t stay in E major.
I didn’t stay anywhere.
I drifted.
Cleans to grit. Blues to rock. A flash of Sweet Child O’ Mine. A stumble into Free Fallin’. Then somewhere else entirely. No key centre. No rules. Just movement.
Spring followed without complaint. Those Shawbuckers ground when asked, sang when eased, and never once tried to steer me back to “proper”.
That wasn’t a practice session.
It was a return.
After travel.
After silence.
After frustration.
Sometimes the best playing doesn’t come from preparation — it comes from finally clearing the floor.
And letting my hands wander until they remember who they are again.