.a written note.

Whispers. The whispers created by the unknown, making me believe some promises aren't meant to be broken turned their arrival into an intention of disappearing a couple of nights ago. And here I am tonight. The bed I lie in makes the saudade, the longing feel less no matter how it feels really. Painful, chaotic or simply unknown. As my body hesitatingly rests on this bed, my internal self hesitates openly for the belief lays inside that I can come out from there..for there are locked doors ahead that I can open. I begin to hear that specific sound of typical midnight as the clock ticks 3am and I fail to understand whether both, the little chirping and the sound of silence, make any difference to the sensations I initially feel as I wait for the same whispers to get back to me. I still believe they'll come back but as the night continues to pass every moment, it becomes more chaotic to know the wait makes my heart sink deeper in an unusual way. This isn't what I thoug...

and tonight, the person, thousands of people are talking about at this moment, became almost someone who made me let go of some things over again. Ansh Agarwal , the one I never knew but tears rolled down my eyes for. Optimism and hope, for a while, means nothing when things happen and you happen to believe that the bad will never stop coming your way.  Its a pity to see someone else can always decide the end of one's life. Its a shame that humanity is a smaller and less important concept for people, perhaps. Its disgusting that I can't do anything about it. And its immeasurably sad that once one is gone, its all over. There's no coming back. There's no making new memories and there's definitely no more happiness that one could get if one lived a little bit longer. There are memories. Memories filled with past tense. Used-to-be's. There is a missing factor. There's courage and humanity for the rest of the world with the dead person being the...

In my head, it feels heavy today. The feeling of heaviness disappears and suddenly I feel nothing. As I stand here not knowing what's going on, the winds since morning blow the same way they usually do but seem to have a kind of warmth they rarely do. Its summer but the clouds tell me that it'll rain today. Its evening and I'm walking alone at this garden having no one around. When it pours, I feel sadder. Sadder than I felt in the afternoon. I don't understand why, when it rains, do I feel so lost. Lost or perhaps, I feel most comfortable when it rains. It contradicts. Like I've come home. Not where I belong, but somewhere I can stay for a while. Until I  recognize the next clear path that seemed foggy some time ago. Is it always about keeping up with our pathways and not about pausing for a moment because we've come a long way? Is it always about knowing everything and not about being real and admitting we're still learning? I am on my way ...

As I set the jar full of myself free in a river that I don't know what I should call, it accepts my contribution and I suddenly start realizing that those before me have given bits of themselves to this river too, like the petals of a flower. Some plucked some of their parts and let go of them in here. Like those parts were nothing. Some gave away themselves completely and again, like they were nothing. I can't really see what they contributed but I sure see the space slowly getting full. This river appears like some invention by the unknown and I come to think its been flowing from the lane attached to my window, showing me signs that its time. And I have just emptied myself. In the idea of what its like to empty something. I can't see the petals but I see the water coming up and I remember one of the tales I was told, back in my childhood. The tale of a thirsty crow that puts small stones inside a pot of water, how the water level raises up and how its thirst vani...

How everything it, the revolution, provides me with, leaves me with something that will never be, that could never be erased by the mature, standard fingers of this universe. I am not guarded by any thick walls anywhere around me to restrict those fingers and the way they might aim their gaze in wonder or just as I'm someone anonymous. Anonymously known. Reason may be that they assume I'm not the same person they'd seen, that they'd met anymore. I don't mind the pointed fingers and the gaze reflecting so many doubts, probably, that I know I could clear. But when I am under this dark blue sky, I don't mind keeping things unsaid and unsorted since I understand I don't need to keep a guard around myself just as to keep the inside story safe and sound, just as to beg the unknown desperation remain inside. As much as it can. As long as I'm capable. And how, when the Moon is up, I can't be someone who I'm not. I get transferred to a place where th...

Because, if something really has arrived in my town whispering in my ears to make room for, will it sound crazy of me to say I can hear these whispers? Yes, it will. And I repeat, do I care? I want to form my own relation with these whispers. The whispers I hear. Like this revolution isn't a concept but a person. Someone visible only for me. For, more probably, my instincts. This someone pours some usual words in my ears leaving an everlasting effect in me initially, unusually and I feel like I am being reborn. I become sure that its a person when I feel the sense of breaths while the whispers being heard. But its not, I know it somewhere. How should I name this feeling, this whole sensation when I feel the warmth around me during these words I'm being told? How should I accept it myself that I've come to be in a state where every syllable holds a specific scent, feel of liveliness along with it. I realize I cannot want to form any relation with these sensations sin...