The begining of a movement

The air is still. The shadows flow out from the candle on the table like streaks of coal. My pen scratches across the paper and another word is formed. It is a primordial thing, all intelligible angles and curves thrown together in a hodgepodge of of shapes that form a meaning.
My room is cold and a draft from the window causes the candles flame to sputter and spit. The shadows dance in amplified mockery. I look up, momentarily distracted from the paper on my desk, there has been little breeze this whole night and each breath of wind brings a brief reprieve from the stifling heat of this summer evening.
My room is a simple wooden affair with very little in the way of luxuries. a simple cot lies along one wall an the writing desk and chair at which I sit stands along the opposite wall. the ceiling is low and the floor is dirt. All in all not the place you would expect a revolution to start.
But that is exactly what is happening.
i have heard stories of great up risers before who claimed they had no idea that their ideas would set fire to the hearts of men and ignite the love of freedom and the hope of a better life.