The Purple Serendipitous Nights
Your story matters.
No one is born without any skills.
Genetics, sure.
Latent talent waiting to be exposed by the right stimuli — definitely.
Everyone is born with competency at something; what it entails much searching and trialling. Believing that our fates are determined from birth, however, is fallacious. Of course, I will never be as good a runner as Usain Bolt, no matter how hard I train. I can, however, be a better runner than who I was yesterday.
Every story needs a good villain
My love for linguistics is a lifelong journey. At 21 years young, my passion for writing is nascent, and my understanding of style a mere speck in this colourful utopia⸺the expression of one’s soul. Words have become my shield from the demands of the world, a brush with which I paint my thoughts. I would be a smidge too vain to even say I may one day be capable enough to publish a book or simply be recognised.
However, Alexander did not create his empire in a day. Perhaps when he was a younger man, he had the dream to rule. Before he was king, however, he was still human, needing to overcome his limits.
That is all we are — facing human adversity. I remember the first time I ever did any writing. We had a writing exercise about our future in school and judged on (then-undisclosed to 9 years old me) language, style, and general creativity. I just wrote some spiel about being prosperous and happy. Creativity score was mediocre, language was worse. The exercise wasn’t anything relevant; ultimately, it was still a writing test. And as my English teacher made abundantly clear to me, I flunked badly.
A love story that begins with so much animosity. I used to hate everything this language represented. It was a chore to learn how to express oneself through speech and writing. The ideas that Martin Luther King made immortal with his words; the speech that galvanised Britain into an attritional war against the Axis of Evil in the 1940s; the words ‘Yes We Can’ that made America’s first Black President — these all presided in the power of words. And I hated it. Words meant nothing more than a thankless, loveless, unforgiving monstrosity I was forced to learn, bound to fail at.
Pporappippam
A Korean phrase, which loosely translates to violet night. It is also a metaphor for a particular type of otherworldly beauty, ironically impossible to put into words.
Why did I choose it — what bearing does this random word have on my love for writing?
To me, pporappippam is awakening through self-discovery — to suddenly find the abstruse concepts as clear as day. Think falling in love — as a kid, being intimate with someone basically didn’t exist, kisses were ‘gross’ and don’t even get started with understanding the concept of relationships.
Writing and linguistics were a journey of strife — born of necessity to face the examinations and tests. I definitely improved by building my vocabulary, but as a writer, I was very rigid. No fluidity or self-expression; I wrote as I was dictated.
One day, she needed me.
Who was she? Today, I no longer recall her face or any remarkable details about her. I remembered, however, the life she was desperate to share. We were 15; she told me about the problems she was facing at home. Parents who fought and were distant, an ex-boyfriend who played her, abject mediocrity in her own endeavours. She asked, “what should I do?”
For the first time in my life, my words were all the solace I could give her. I tried to be empathetic, but my words did not help her, and she lashed out at me too. Her displacement of anger on me was, in retrospect, expected. We were hormonal teenagers, after all. This struck me then, and it constantly reminds me up till today: I needed to be better at listening, at my words, not for myself, but for those around me.
Tell me a story
This piece is a story-driven one. It doesn’t use any examples or any critical theory. It is a retelling of a story that made me who I am. A story that made me truly understand how important language use is.
I talked about how words are about the ones around me. As a storyteller, the stories we collect are meant for retelling, one day.
“A writer is only as interesting as their life.” — Tim Denning.
These experiences of others are being entrusted to you, reliving their memories through the words you choose, the metaphors you paint, the literary devices you employ. Anecdotes amidst a story? Perhaps a detailed painting on a canvas that illustrates the turmoil, or even a heartfelt, soulful ballad?
That responsibility to retell the story well is why we must learn our mediums well, because we will be telling these stories we collect, one day, to someone. For me, it is in my words.
I remember when my grandmother died. We were about to go out for dinner one day when my aunt called my mum. Within a minute, we were racing over to the flat she lived in, dread in our hearts. The smell emanating from the house — the smell of decay. The stillness of the apartment — the sense of death. The shock of what just happened — I could barely think. I sat down with my cousin, who was the same age as me, and for the first time in our lives, we talked. We had never been close before, but suddenly we spoke about the lives we had and punctuated our conversation with memories of grandma, a matriarch I had mixed feelings about.
In the wake, I asked to deliver a eulogy. There wasn’t a need to, but I felt that someone should know about my grandma. For the stories I shared of her, a grandson’s memory of her, my memories of her — the power of my words gave my family something to aid in grieving and gave me some closure. Suddenly, these words I was delivering had so much power.
Writing this article and remembering my grandma, that girl I failed to console, and the people I have met made me realise how much I had neglected this gift — taking writing and the power to express words as granted.
When I go to sleep, I will once again dream about the purple nights and imagine what new stories I will pick up tomorrow. The thrill of remembering these stories to retell them with my words keeps me excited to face them every day.
I won’t be silenced. I won’t go Speechless
So what is the point of this article?
It is predicated on a hope — that you realise the gift of language we are blessed with. So I implore you, go out and collect more stories. Write, read, and be brave to speak your mind. Never be muzzled by people who tell you to keep your thoughts to yourself. Most importantly, don’t discredit yourself thinking that your life is insignificant.
Your story matters.
