Our CL111 prof, Sir Butch, asked us a very important question the other day in class:
Why are we compelled to write about them, why is there a need to share them, why do we feel like revealing a part of ourselves?
I've always been a storyteller. My friends can attest to that. I never really think much about it, it's just something that I do. I like sharing little random events that happen to me throughout the day, like when I saw a rainbow as I was riding the MRT on my way home, or how I just finished a whole bar of mazapan. It's something so normal, so natural to me that when the question was presented to us, I couldn't find an answer.
Why do I tell my stories? It's not as if it's everyone's business.
I didn't know really. It just happens. So I was stumped. For the next 30 seconds, I was scribbling on my all-purpose doodle notebook asking myself the same question over and over. It's an expected question given that it was a class on the Short Story, but I never really thought of it before.
And then Sir Butch said something.
Everyday is a surprise for me. Sometimes things don't happen the way I thought they would, sometimes people don't turn out to be who I thought they were. And with every new discovery I can only grasp so much about what is happening. I believe that everything happens for a reason, but of course I won't always know what that reason is. That oblivion is often frustrating. Maybe I don't always question it out loud, but at the back of my mind, I know a part of me is wondering. And maybe by telling the stories, by sharing them, I am unconsciously trying to figure it out. Maybe there is a part of me that wants to step outside myself and look at what is happening to me from another point of view, and I can only do that by articulating it. Or writing it down.
So, I'm wondering: even after the countless stories I've shared about someone, why isn't it still making perfect sense?
Is it because there are more stories to be told?
"Why do we tell stories?"
Why are we compelled to write about them, why is there a need to share them, why do we feel like revealing a part of ourselves?
I've always been a storyteller. My friends can attest to that. I never really think much about it, it's just something that I do. I like sharing little random events that happen to me throughout the day, like when I saw a rainbow as I was riding the MRT on my way home, or how I just finished a whole bar of mazapan. It's something so normal, so natural to me that when the question was presented to us, I couldn't find an answer.
Why do I tell my stories? It's not as if it's everyone's business.
I didn't know really. It just happens. So I was stumped. For the next 30 seconds, I was scribbling on my all-purpose doodle notebook asking myself the same question over and over. It's an expected question given that it was a class on the Short Story, but I never really thought of it before.
And then Sir Butch said something.
"Because it is in sharing these stories that we make sense of them."
Everyday is a surprise for me. Sometimes things don't happen the way I thought they would, sometimes people don't turn out to be who I thought they were. And with every new discovery I can only grasp so much about what is happening. I believe that everything happens for a reason, but of course I won't always know what that reason is. That oblivion is often frustrating. Maybe I don't always question it out loud, but at the back of my mind, I know a part of me is wondering. And maybe by telling the stories, by sharing them, I am unconsciously trying to figure it out. Maybe there is a part of me that wants to step outside myself and look at what is happening to me from another point of view, and I can only do that by articulating it. Or writing it down.
So, I'm wondering: even after the countless stories I've shared about someone, why isn't it still making perfect sense?
Is it because there are more stories to be told?
No comments:
Post a Comment