Like a School Girl.

You write like a little school girl, said the familiar strangers voice. The rasp in his voice contrasted severely to the comparison he made of me. I tried to defend myself and the style I wrote in, but as I spoke and found less and less reasons to speak momentarily I realized he was right. I was subtle and precautious when I spoke and wrote. I cared too much of society, people, culture and their thoughts and tolerance. He said I was limiting myself and not reaching my furthest potential. I had to be cruder and truthful, less polite.School girl he said. I write like a little school girl.
Everything is black. I see black. I am floating in black. I breathe black. Do you know what does black smell like? Nothing, like eternal darkness. And then, a silent exploding flash of light, threw me aback. I found myself standing in the center of a playground. As I regained composure, I took notice of the place. A huge almost ancient but deliberately designed, building stood in front of me. Right before it next to its main entrance was a crooked yet familiar tree poised like an old granny. Leaves fell from it, and rested on the grounds and propelled me to walk forward. I did. And I realized I was back in my old school. I walked ahead, on my own pace as I breathed in every single memory that was made on these grounds years and years ago. This playground where dreams were made, lessons were learnt and the future was written. Friends who would stand by each other always, first loves who would be broken and torn with the passage of time, and mentors who would never be heard of again but never forgotten in our silent and busy hearts. And when school is over, dreams are pursued, life stories are written and we all have one to tell. Don’t we?
Suddenly, the train of my thoughts was brought to a halt, with the shrieking sound of an instrument. It was the school bell ringing, indicating children to take their daily break. And the next minute I found myself swarmed with excited children screaming and running around me. I couldn’t take this anymore; it was all too surreal and reminiscent. My eyes welled up and I turned around to leave. As I walked out of the school gates, the ones I had walked past repeatedly in my younger days I still felt like a school girl walking out to get into my fathers car. This time I got into my car, and drove off. I am back to the existing moment. I don’t feel like a school girl anymore. But in my words I pay tribute often to that school girl. The school girl who dreamt of bigger dreams, who wrote her very first poem in an English class, who had a student crush on her English teacher, who would rather write little notes during lunch break than play baseball, who used to enjoy art, history, languages and religion, the school girl who knew whether it was big or small, she would be writing one day. The school girl who dreamt.
I write like a school girl. It brings a smile to my face.