Chapter Sixteen - Prince: The Purple Enigma

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Prince: The Purple Enigma

PRINCE DIDN’T WALK —
He floated.
Electric. Effortless.
Like a velvet ghost in stilettos.

He was not a man.
He was not a woman.
He was Prince.
And that was all he ever needed to be.

From the first guitar lick to the last falsetto wail, he made it clear:
He would not fit into your boxes.
He was sex. He was soul. He was scripture.
And he was weird. Gloriously, unapologetically weird.

When the world zigged, Prince zapped.
He wrote Darling Nikki in a time when polite pop ruled the airwaves.
He wore lace and eyeliner before it was subversive —
He was the subversion.

And Purple Rain?
A love letter, a heartbreak, a sermon, a storm.
It wasn’t just a song.
It was an era.

He played over 27 instruments on his debut album.
He wrote hits for people without them even asking.
He changed his name to a symbol just to spite the label that tried to own him.

He didn’t want ownership.
He wanted freedom.

Sexual freedom.
Creative freedom.
Human freedom.

He lived in Minneapolis, not L.A.
Built Paisley Park like it was a castle for cosmic misfits.
His vault still holds more unreleased masterpieces than most artists have in their careers.

He was deeply spiritual.
He was deeply sensual.
He was deeply himself.

And when he passed in 2016 — the same cruel year that took Bowie and George —
The sky turned a little more purple.
The silence a little more profound.

Prince left us with the reminder:
Don’t just live —
Shatter the mirror.