Since childhood I have known that every word conceals a light the world will never trace. Each syllable, though silent, still is heard within a secret, incandescent space. The "A" was crimson blazing through my chest, the "I" a yellow blade of noon-day fire, the "O" would spread a shadow in the west, and "E" would burn with silent, deep desire. The "U" would paint the air in cobalt blue, each song would dress in pigment, not in sound. A world of forms the music carried through, a spectral script the hearing never found. What wraps around me, glowing, sharp, and near, for you is but a sound that disappears. I see what you will never recognise: the light that sings, the time that breathes and bends. The song you only hear, I see with eyes that follow where its silent current ends. But others only listen, never see. Their world is flat, and voiceless, pale, and plain. I speak, but all they hear is melody, my vision falls like water down a drain. What must it be, to live without this flame? To hear a chord and not perceive its skin. I wish that you could somehow feel the same, step in the light that surges from within. Then you might see the January sky turn into song, dissolving as it flies, and feel how tones, like shadows drifting by, could open you with colors in disguise. What wraps around me, glowing, sharp, and near, for you is but a sound that disappears. I see what you will never recognise: the light that sings, the time that breathes and bends. The song you only hear, I see with eyes that follow where its silent current ends. I do not ask you, ever, to believe— not gift, not curse; just let me make it clear: my world is built from words that breathe and weave, that burn with light, though you may find it unclear.
