Undergraduate / 'Storytellers' - Common Application Essay, perhaps using for Brown [4]

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.

Undergraduate / 'Ben' - Common Application Essay, person who has had a significant influence on you. [9]

I could really use some help regarding my essay; it is for my common application, and, because I am working on several different essays right now, I wondered if I am on the right track. Tips and advice would be very welcome! (Once I finish other essays, I will post them)

Topic: Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence.

Ben

Ben stood in the hallway, his white shape contrasting with the dented, brown parquet. Just looking at him recalled long-lost childhood memories, like puncturing tiny holes in the dark dome that seemed to circumvent my thoughts whenever my eyes touched upon his surface. In only a few days he would depart the densely packed hallway that had been his home for the past seven years. I knew I could not avoid him any longer. For the final time, I sat down and played, letting my quiet recollections sweep me away in the musical mist my fingers created.

Ben and I first laid eyes upon each other when I had reached the age of ... He was a small, matte white piano. I had wanted to play the piano ever since I was - well, I can't even remember. There was something about its blanket of black and white rectangles, its clear sound that seemed to linger in the air even after the last key had been struck, that drew me to it. Having a piano, however, meant having a responsibility, and, as my parents weren't sure I could handle that part, they promised that I could have my go at playing the piano after I'd learned how to play the flute. The flute and I were, however, definitely not a match made in heaven; I 'endured' playing it for two years while never letting my mind wander of the cause.

Ben was a vehicle to retrieve my emotions out of the unfathomable depths of my mind; I had always been one to hold it all back, swallowing rather than spitting it out, but Ben had taught me not to be afraid to stand out and to refrain from fading into the yellow walls. Hours and hours, I sat down at the piano, expressing myself in an alphabet that existed of only seven letters, but that could convey so much more meaning than the usual twenty-six could. I composed music that was not music, but rather the tenor of my life put on a tone bar. I practiced until I could execute a faultless piece, letting my perfectionism shine through the perfectly hit keys.

The final key lingers in the air. I sit very still for a moment, afraid of disturbing the peaceful and almost tangible feelings that came with the music and will surely leave with its finish. Ben has been my friend, teacher and guardian for the past years; he has exceeded the term 'piano' in every possible way. He taught me the power of endurance, the rewards and results of hard work and the ability to channel my creative energy into something productive; these are variables, however, that I cannot put an amount to, and trying to would only cheapen Bens influence. I can only hope that, one day, I can be to someone what Ben has been to me.