The windchimes hanging by my window grilles have stood testament to my passage through recent years.

It all began on a school trip to scale Mt. Kinabalu, where I bought a pretty windchime with a bright, cheery looking sunflower perched atop it. It wasn't a very effective windchime, for the three chimes were aligned in a straight line; the only way this silly thing would produce any sound was when the winds knocked it against the grilles of my window.

But, it was a faithful companion nonetheless, keeping me company through the endless days and nights that I spent mugging for the O Levels, through the endless days and nights of darkness and isolation.

The soft, gentle clinks and chinks of metal hitting metal produced a soothing and immensely calming effect on my nerves. The soft, quiet song of the chimes, with the soothing, lulling south-western breezes were my constant companions through those times.

Just last July, I bought a rather large, almost oversized windchime, its frame made of wood, its chimes made of thicker hollow metal tubes, that produced a heavier, deeper, more resonant clang.

It joined the ranks of my first windchime, hanging by my window grille. This time, at last, I had a windchime that could chime on its own in the wind, without having to depend on knocking itself against my window grilles to sing.

It soon became another trusted companion as I slugged days and nights once again, this time for the A Levels; my friends, the windchimes, would sing soothing songs to me, as I pored over books and notes, laboured over sums, and crammed every nook and cranny of my head with information.

And as I grew drowsy and sleepy from all the words and numbers swimming in front of me, the gentle breeze would caress my face, and my windchimes would sing a soothing lullaby, lulling me to sleep.

Even when I wasn't studying, my windchimes were very much a part of my life.

On the darkest, stormiest of nights, as I stayed up to watch the bright red storm clouds gather in the darkness of night to show their power, the windchimes would clang and clatter: a high-pitched lilt from my smaller, sunflower windchime, and a lower-pitched clanging from my bigger, half-wooden windchime.

And as the storm gathered its might, and the winds grew stronger, the windchimes would sing and clatter with more and more gutso, swinging violently against my window grilles, screaming at the tops of their voices.

Until the storm finally died down, would they sputter the last of their song, and stop, to rest.

It's been a long time since I last heard my windchimes sing for me.

I haven't had much time to sit around in my room, to listen to the song of the wind, to watch my friends sing for me, as I used to do, ever since enlisting in the army.

When I do occasionally do hear my windchimes sing again, I am taken back to those magical times of bliss and simplicity, during my schooldays, when everything was so simple, so pure, when life was so much fun to live, when trusted friends were right beside you, when there was nothing more you could ask for.

But times have moved on.

My sunflower windchime has fallen apart, and only my deep-throated, wooden one still remains.

Perhaps it's time I got myself a windchime with wooden chimes next.

Perhaps.