During those senseless and tasteless days, I sought and felt deprived of inspiration more than ever. It was surprising how losing one person could dramatically change another’s perception towards the world. To this day, I still have difficulties in articulating my relationship with him. I remembered that first meeting with my counselor. She asked, “Why don’t you start by telling me who he is?” My whole body tensed up, lips pressed, and stomach hurt. I muttered, “a friend”, and then I hoped the enquiry would end just right there. Well, I rarely encountered scenarios like that though. Most of the times, what is left is just a colossal mix of confusing emotions and thoughts. They are altogether too complicated to articulate but for you, I’ll try.

Who was he? He was my go-to friend for a random talk, a philosophical debate, an existentialist discussion, and a good rant. I showcased my most authentic self, stubbornly competitive side, and ugly failures to him, knowing that he always had wisdom to share and perspectives to add. The love I have towards him is intense and fiery, yet constant and silent. It is neither exactly romantic, nor familial. It is simply what it is. We are each other’s mirrors, reflecting each other’s quirks, belief, and experiences. Those small differences we embodied took us to surprise. Sometimes, I think that I must have drawn another idealized version of him out of my imagination. Losing him feels very much like losing part of me. During my depression, my mind often ruminated until the black hole of grief sucked all my energy and drew me to sleep, away from consciousness. For a good while, I thought I could never appreciate life and enjoy literature again but I did. I encountered Dr. Martin Luther King’s I Have a Dream in my English class. It was like a precious vase of water in a desert.

“All of these works are significant literature. However, the question is why these great writings are great? Why history and people define these writings as great? This is what you will be trying to explain to the audience in your précis”, my instructor noted. I replayed these questions as I read Dr. Martin Luther King’s I Have a Dream four times. Each time, I read it from the different roles Dr. King played - an orator, a writer, a strategist, and a leader. Why does this piece matter? Where is the greatness of this great speech? They said that he spent a sleepless night prior to this speech at Washington Square. They said that he made last minute changes. They said that he showed up with immense calmness, authority, and peace. Reading closely from word to word, I slowly made interpretations of Dr. King’s speech. He addressed the audience with collective pronouns and nouns like “we” or “America” frequently at the beginning, a gesture of handshakes. Yet, at the end of his speech, he vocalized the social factions existed – “black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics” (144). Why did he do this after much effort in creating a sense of unity? Wouldn’t it be dangerous to bring these social factions our? I imagined Dr. King preparing and redrafting his speech over and over during that sleepless night. These were never coincidences or effortless moves. He was nervously preparing and strategizing. He didn’t want merely beautiful words. He wanted actions to follow. He wanted change. I gradually made sense of Dr. King’s writing, an argumentative speech articulated artfully through disclosing claims and addressing the audience’s emotion layer by layer.

As I arrived at this conclusion, a silent rush of joy reached my numbed mind. It was as if I received an electrical shock in my brain. Dr. King’s elaborative intent coupled with authentic and strategic execution was expressed to the audience exactly the way he wanted to. Such understanding forced me to not only define his speech as a literary piece for the first time, but also see the speech from the direct audience’s point of view. Dr. King became a writer instead of social activist in my mind. By examining his speech, I realized that a great piece of writing is not merely a collection of information, but a constant exchange of understanding between the writer and the audience. In a very tiny and subtle way, the arrival of such conclusion sheds light on something fundamental on both grief and writing to me – they both require perspective taking, an understanding of others’ mental states. That small reflection was my moment of awakening, my pride, and my humbleness.