Undergraduate / SUNY Purchase Film Conservatory Essay [5]

So I'm applying to SUNY Purchase's Film Conservatory pretty much as we speak, everything has to be in by wednesday, 2 days away so I want to get everything in. The conservatory is extremely competetive (only about 20 students get in each year from a couple hundred applicants) and its my top school so I really really need to get in, its pretty much the only school on my list that I can afford to go to and I love the school. So, the essay prompt was to write a 1.5 page auto-biographical essay and it could be about why you want to make films, why you want to go to purchase, an experience that made you realize you wanted to become a filmmaker, ect. I have literally spent months going over this essay and maybe I've just been looking at it for two long but I find it almost alittle boring so some fresh eyes would be great. Any help would be much appriciated:

I was standing in the shower, crying my eyes out. I was questioning, contemplating, "What am I going to do with my life?" At the time, everyone around me seemed so sure of themselves and where they were going. Everywhere I went I met another future doctor, future astronaut, future anything; but what was my future? I was standing in the shower, tears streaming down my face. I was eight years old.

I grew up with a book in my hand and although the title was constantly changing, it did not change the fact that there was always one there. I was captivated with the world of fiction and the stories it brought to life. On any given day it would not have been a rarity to find me outside in the grass with my nose tucked in between two pages and my mind off in some new uncharted territory. But as I got older and my head began its descent from the clouds, the sad realization set in that I was never going to be Bilbo Baggins and there was no magical world on the other side of my closet. I reached for the shampoo. The gritty mess which flows from my family's well (jokingly referred to as "water") splashed down all around me as the sweet smell of Sulfur filled the air; the price paid for living in a middle-of-no-where town known only first for being the UFO capital of the east coast and second for its unprecedented population of rednecks. I thought to myself, "This is it. My life is on a downward spiral to becoming completely excitement free." You see at the time I had a very skewed misconception of the world. I saw it as a place where people got old and got boring; where they lost their passions and feelings of purpose to fit into a mold of normality. To me, that was depression. I longed for something more, something greater than the ordinary. Then suddenly, it hit me.

I reached for the conditioner. I thought, "Lives like the ones I've always dreamed of don't exist, but their stories do. So if I can't have a life of fantasy, why not create one? Why not craft the most extravagant of tales where the only limitation is the parameters of my own mind? And perhaps, my stories could even lead others to rediscover too the things that they had once dreamed of but forgotten." I stood there, marveling in my moment of self-discovery. A chill went up my spine; a quick shiver, a readjustment of heat. I thought, "But I don't only want to share my stories, I want to show them. I don't want people to be left trying to imagine what I had described or struggling to piece together hidden meanings based upon false inferences. No, I want to be able to put something before someone and say this is exactly what I see, what I mean, what I feel. I want my imagination to come alive, and not just in words but rather right before my very own eyes." So it was here that the romance was born.

I had always loved films and the way in which they always seemed to be carrying me off to exotic, unseen, or even unreal places. It was the sounds, the colors, the characters, the emotions. It was the ability held by a story, or an image, or even a single line to inspire me to imagine something new of my own. It was the ideas that had never before even crossed my mind, causing me to look at something with new eyes. It was all of these things which gave way to my infatuation. I loved how I could follow a stranger through all of their life's struggles in just a small moment of time, and after, I could feel as if somehow I had been a part of that journey. I loved the feeling that would linger for days after seeing a good film, a sort of strange excitement mixed with an unquenchable desire to make something of my own. It was that same feeling that would cause me to sit for hours pondering over ways in which I could have improved upon the story; what I would have done differently if given the chance. I simply got to a point where everything around me would make me want to watch different films and each time I watched a film, I'd want to make one of my own. It always causes a little bit of envy, though I must admit. I would find myself watching as the credits rolled, as all the different names went by, hoping that maybe someday my name would be the cause of someone else's envy. But regardless of wherever I would end up, whether my name be first on the list or straggling on at the bottom, I now knew the path which I wanted to take to get there.

I was standing in the shower, the tears had stopped. I had it, the answer to the question that had started this whole sad display - "What am I going to do with my life?" I was going to dream and to create. I was going to watch as many films as I could get my hands on and learn from them the art of the industry. I was going to work hard in school so that when it came time to applying for college, I could go to the very best school for my desired field. When I started the whole college process and began to really search out what would be the best choice for myself, I made a list. On this list were written things which I specifically wanted in a school and things which I specifically needed in a school. For example, I wanted to enroll in a program which offered hands on learning in production from the very beginning. Since already spending half of each school day over the last year and a half in a film production class in which a majority of the activities done were hands on - allowing me to become familiar with the equipment, the software, and the method to the madness of film - it would feel as if I were taking a step back to join a program where it could be years before I even touch another camera in class. Furthermore, I wanted to find a program that is smaller and less congested than some of the schools which are bigger in name but lesser in quality and experience. I would like to be able to become well acquainted with my professors and the other students in the program, while having the opportunity to receive one on one instruction from individuals who have spent their lives in the industry. Location was also an important factor on my list. I wished to find a school that would be far enough to get away and start fresh on the next chapter of my life, but close enough not to forget the old. I also desired a school near to New York City; a goldmine of opportunity for young filmmakers. The list went on, but at the moment that is not important. What is important is that when I left from the visit I took to SUNY Purchase, I was a little startled. It was as if a weight had been lifted off of me; the stress of trying to find a school which checked off on everything that I was looking for. Truly, Purchase checks off. So naturally I spent the next few months driving myself to the edge of insanity preparing my application for Purchase's Film Conservatory in the hopes that the admissions committee would see in me what I saw in the program that day; a perfect fit. It's just funny how the world works and how a lifelong endeavor can start in the most peculiar of places. You know most people wait their whole lives to discover their passion and purpose, but mine found me in a shower when I was eight years old and it hasn't left since; it never will.

Sooo please I need some feedback. and if any one can think of maybe another way in which I could end it that may be a little less drab would save my life.

Thanks :)

Undergraduate / 'Just say the word' - NYU - Dramatic Essay [4]

This is my creative essay for the Film Program at NYU. The prompt was:
"Introduce yourself. Describe an unforgettable event in your life and how it changed your perception of yourself or the view of someone close to you. This event can be dramatic and/or comedic. The assignment may be written as a short story in the first person or as an essay."

My one fear is that my essay is hard to understand. So any feedback on how it reads to other people would be a huge help. And also any gramatical errors or anything like that that you find would be a help as well. I'm probably mailing this out today so please, any advice would be much appriciated. Thanks.

How did I get here? How did this happen.
I sat staring through the open car door as it dangled there in front of my eyes. How had I not seen it before; how had it never caught my eye? It hit me so fast, like a wave that unexpectedly overtakes you as you walk along the beach. "It's really happening," I thought to myself.

I am no longer a child. I am terrified.
And it's not fear that troubles me, it's realization. It's the realization that my life will simply just keeps moving along and I have no say in the matter. It's the realization that I no longer have what seems like all the time in the world to figure out what I want to do with that life; what I want to be, what I want to leave behind after I'm gone. It's finally time for me to stop thinking but rather go out and do the things I've dreamed of; the things I've only wondered at, baffled at, as I lay alone in my bed at night.

It had never felt real until now.
I stared at it as it hung there, as it hung unaware of the meaning it gave to me at this moment. Those few seconds stretched for hours, stretched to encompass the span of a lifetime in the flash of a blinking eye. And that's what it all now felt like; a blink, a moment, a flash. Is that what it will feel like at the end?

A flash?
When I was a little girl, my father took me to the fair. He bought me a wristband so that I could go on all of the rides without having to fumble with tickets. He told me, "Darling, you can do anything you want here, just say the word." To a young child, hearing those words was like being given the keys to the world; being given complete freedom.

To me, freedom was a precious thing.
I craved it; desired it above all else.
But you see, in my eyes, freedom was simply having whatever you want, when you want, and not having to do anything you don't want to get it. In my eyes, freedom was a perfect world, but only for me. Of course over time I was persuaded from these views by opening my eyes to the hard work and responsibility involved in having "freedom." As I grew older I earned more privileges. I worked to make my own money, began driving, found myself a wonderful boy, and even began preparing for college; dreaming of going out on my own and making a name for myself in this wide world. And for a while the illusion was indeed convincing. I allowed myself to believe that over time I would gain more control in my life and that that control would one day become absolute. But it was still just an illusion, a dream; an idea of a perfect world, my perfect world. Eventually I would realize that the one thing which I thought could bring me my absolute freedom is the one thing that will forever hold it back.

Time.
Time is the one thing which binds everyone. Even the most wealthy, most powerful people in the world will die someday. Do you think they chose that for themselves? Do you think they wouldn't change it if they could? You could have the whole world in the palm of your hand, but the reality remains; everyone is born, everyone grows older, and everyone will eventually die.

Our time is limited.
That can't be changed, just accepted.
So staring, I sat as it hung limply outside the open car door. How had I never seen it before? How had it never caught my eye? How had it all happened so fast? The lines, those small cracks, they hung loosely together over the weakened bone below. I sat staring, staring at my father's aged hand that hung at his side as he stood outside the car conversing with someone who, at the moment, held no importance to me. Never before had I noticed those lines, those cracks, those wrinkles which spread out like ripples on the surface of a pond. Never before had I noticed how thin the skin appeared, how stretched, or even how loosely the veins spread underneath. For the first time I was looking at my father; a man in his fifties, hardened by years of ceaseless working. For the first time in a long time, I was seeing what was actually there and not just what my eyes were telling me to see based off of what they had previously known.

For the first time, I realized I was growing up.
For the first time, I felt the hold that time has on me.
For the first time, I thought "I am almost eighteen years old. What have I done with that time?"
What had I done?
I hated the thought. I dreaded the question. That question to which my answer would speak of nothing of importance. At this time, what troubled me most was not the fact that I - and everyone around me - were getting older. At this time, what troubled me most was the fact that- in all that time of growth- the things which I had done served no greater purpose than to merely entertain; to entertain myself or the requests of others, teachers, my parents. I thought, "Has all this time been wasted?"

Time goes by so fast; faster than even I can sometimes realize. The funny thing is, the older I get, as the years I have left steadily decrease, I can't help feeling time's steady increase. And this only leads me to further wonder; if these eighteen years have gone by so rapidly, as if they were nothing, will it not feel as though tomorrow I will find myself an old woman?

Is it so unlikely?
Is it so unlikely that, if the lifestyle I have I keep, I will wake up on that day and again have to question if the time I had been given had been squandered away in futile activity? A sad day it would be to lay in remembrance of your life and realize that the days you have spent held no purpose or meaning beyond to merely serve yourself and your own selfish comforts. A sad day it would be to realize that you have lived your life well and comfortably, yes, but never with purpose.

And it was then, for a moment, that I was torn from my thoughts as my father at last settled back into the car and began to drive us home. I looked over at the man who had given me everything; my life, my childhood, and now this much needed revelation. Unbeknown to him, in an instant, he had changed my views of this world and of the life I was leading. In an instant, he had given me what was needed for me to stop waiting around, stop simply thinking of how my life will be, and start living, actually living. In that moment, in that rough weathered hand, I saw my future. I saw the effects that time would one day have on me. I saw the old age that would one day overtake me. I saw myself upon that final hour, laying, awaiting that final breath. But what I did not see was how I would greet that end. Would it be with peaceful acceptance or mournful detest? The real question is; when that final hour comes, when I take that final breathe, will the death that takes me be taking a soul that has truly lived?

Will I have truly lived?
I sit, looking at my father's hand as he steers us home. I sit, not hoping for, but planning the things I am going to do, the things which I will do, today and tomorrow and all the days after. The things which will, in purpose, serve greater causes than to just simply allow me to go on drifting along in my life. For from now on I will do nothing but dream and create. I will do nothing but share with others my thoughts, my words, my ideas. I will do nothing but strive with all I have to make a difference in, if even in the smallest way, the life of another, the ways of a people, the turning of the world.

From now on I will nothing but truly just live.