"And life is, I am sure, made of poetry". It's three in the morning and you are working on a college coursework. It's been two months since your classes began, but you still feel as lost as in the first day. You were supposed to get up at four and the due date is at eight. But who cares about it when for the first time in your life, you are not thinking of the professor's expectations on you, or how many pages are yet to be written, or if you are writing in a fancy way, or if you will get the whole grade. Who cares if in one hour you will have been awake for almost forty-eight hours straight. Who would ever mind if for the very first time you're not thinking about on how tired you might be to attend the classes you will have. Who on earth would care for all those things if for the first time you are writing about literature, you are comparing different authors' points of view on poetry, using your own words and personal reading repertoire. And within the time that last hour lasts, you just forget the reasons why you felt so lost and fearful and insecure about not being capable enough to handle external and internal pressure, but hey this already is an old issue for you. And you just write. And you just feel the words flowing out of you. Just like you know you can do. As strong as the feeling of missing so severely the moments when you were used to write like that. Just like you were alive, and not only a student who will be evaluated. You only have 5 minutes and you just reread everything before you print it. It's been almost forty-eight hours since you are awake now. And the feeling of having chosen the right course on college it's the only thought you allow in your mind.