/ 'Storytellers' - Common Application Essay, perhaps using for Brown
I wrote another essay. It's only 433 words, and it's a lot more philosophical than the other one I posted. All comments are welcome!Storytellers
I sit alone on the faded green, weather-stained bench, my legs folded, my backpack resting on the plastic beside me. The brick school building behind me buzzes with incessant teenage laughter as the sun plays hide-and-seek with the charcoal clouds. I pick at the brittle cover of my book as people pass me by. I am not out there on my own because I am dissociable - in fact, I flourish when I am among people, eager to launch a discussion or contribute to a seemingly difficult issue. Sometimes, however, I yearn for a sanctuary, a place to let my thoughts an imagination flow freely, a place where I do not feel obliged to work.
As I watch men and women pass me by, setting of towards their destinations, or just mindlessly wandering across the gray pavement, I lower my book and begin unravelling, or rather weaving threads of my imagination together to fabricate their stories - stories that last for as long as the people concerning them remain in my eyesight. My mind constructs entire novels around them: a worn-out looking man carrying a beaten-up briefcase changes into a defeated businessman, desperately trying to pay the rent, support his ill father and -
Drop. An ice-cold spat of water hits my cheek, rests on my cheekbone for a moment before tracing its wet way down my cheek, and I'm back on the green bench, book in one hand and. As the drops increase in number and volume, quietly dripping on my pink raincoat, I am reminded that what I see is fictional; there is no reality nor truth in what I conceive.
The chatter in the construction behind me reaches a higher pitch - break-time. My imagination, now matter how incomplete or fleeting, sweeps me back to observing the innocent people that pass me by. I want to see a mother, awakening from her coma after seven years, a father, being consoled by his little boy after he lost his job, a family, mourning over their deceased grandfather. Someday, I want to know all their stories - from the shiny cover to the irreversible 'The End' printed in cursive across the final page.
That is what I want, that is who I am: a storyteller. I am reflected in the people I see and the stories that lie behind them, knowing that, whoever they are, they are going somewhere. But for now, I'm content with following their blurred shapes through the opaque rain curtain, sitting on the green, plastic bench, a tattered book in my hand, and letting the stories come along with each passing person.