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 since they tell me we already are related to each other. The sensations, making my surroundings feel hollow sometimes, promise me to arrive when the Moon is up. They're stubborn. They don't care if I'm afraid. Afraid of the promises one makes with another. And they're mystical. Mystical, when I even start speaking about them, trying to analyze their identities. They're beautiful. Beautiful enough to share some of their beauty with me as well not bothering to care if it scares others.
Like a lightening they feel when they arrive. A lightening gifting me millions of balloons, words, ways, feelings and a pocket full of oneself. Balloons to show me my ways to freedom. Ways to tell me I can still come back if I take a wrong turn. Feelings to say I am. I am someone. I am.