Dear conscience,
We haven’t talked for a while, and this while seems a little longer now. I used to come by your house, which I treated as my home, and you used to talk me over and listen to my whispers at 2 AM. It felt the same as when a pilgrim visit his pilgrimage, satisfied and contemplated. Your door was always open for my tired feet after a long suffocating day, for my burnt hands after touching the fire inside me, which never burnt out. For my aching neck which stood stiff even when it was weighed down by my own dreams. For my red eyes which have cried down regrets lately.
It always was.
We have been here with each other, longer than I have known who I really am. I am your favorite whisper and you my favorite voice.
Your listener.
-Kriti Singhal
