On a white paper, my pen runs
In a scribbled handwriting.
The paper on my table is no longer white. It lies coloured.
Black and blue ink denoting arithmetic,
Red, yellow and green for science
And pastel shades for history.

My eyes are tired.
The ink is too bright for them.
I gaze at my novel across the table,
No paitence left to read that too.
Sighing, I close my eyes.
The familiar darkness takes over
With strange patterns moving in different directions.
As I try fixing my mind on one of them,
I see a white flash.

Hills and forests; dancing branches and whispering leaves; blue waves and ancient ruins appear in front of me.
Some years have gone by,
These magical childhood experiences
Appear like a very old dream.
It's true I have grown up now,
Older to think no more as a little girl
But still young to be a wise woman.
Or am I a mixture of both?

My eyes rake over the street outside.
Orange lamps light the roads.
It's midnight, everyone is asleep but not me.
The pages of my textbook flutter with the nightly breeze and go to rest.
I am awake. I am alive. I feel alive.
The soul inside me, my companion,
I don't hear her much now. She whispers at times but keeps quiet.
Acknowledging her existence, her voice is enough for our companionship.
At least for now.