I fought for the French Revolution just like many of these people, breathing in the thick air of rebellion mixed with the musky scent of unwashed bodies and the faint aroma of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery.
Sweat dripped down my brow as I saw young kids, mostly in their teens and twenties, their faces smeared with the dirt of battle. Their shirts clung to their backs, dampened by the fear and anticipation. The majority of the revolutionaries were young people because the older ones had lost their power to dream. Their calloused hands and weary feet, cracked from long marches, had been grounded to the earth, burdened by the weight of providing for their families. They couldn't risk their lives while their children's innocent eyes still looked up to them, relying on their protection and support.
The younger generation, however, their hearts racing with adrenaline, dares to dream more.