So after my terrible first essay,
I wrote another, which is quite different stylistically and thematically given the nature of college essays.
Let me know what you think!
I am in combat. The enemy is stealthy, fast, and skilled. He hides in the very moment I believe I have found him, for he is strong, and holds tricks on the corner of his sleeve. When I crouch, he runs. When I run, he shoots. We play a tantalizing game, both of us the hunters, both of us the hunted.
Last Tuesday, he was shot. In the moment when both our worlds froze, we exchanged contact, and our eyes met, for the first, and hopefully, for the last time. In mine, I held resilience and strength, and in his, I saw fear.
While my heart raced, and the blood pulsed in my veins, a thousand synapses danced their ceaseless dance. The flesh of my cheek turned upward, as the warm, putrid air filled my mouth. In that moment, I was alive. I had won this battle.
The war is not yet over. We ricochet back and forth, like the slapping of a hockey puck against shattered ice. One battles ceases, and another begins, first in mud, then in wind. It has lasted months, yet there is far more to go. It may last years, the future, unknown.
The enemy is my breast tumor. I am the soldier. While I have lost battles, I have also won. My tumor will not prevent me from becoming the woman I wish to become, the one who breaks a familial cycle of oppressed, undereducated women. My tumor will not prevent me from being at the school, I so vehemently love, Northwestern. And my tumor most certainly will not prevent me from following the dreams I so desperately chase.
My enemy is strong, capable, and resilient, but I will not fail. I will take on the enemy, I will outstrip him, and I will win this war.
I wrote another, which is quite different stylistically and thematically given the nature of college essays.
Let me know what you think!
I am in combat. The enemy is stealthy, fast, and skilled. He hides in the very moment I believe I have found him, for he is strong, and holds tricks on the corner of his sleeve. When I crouch, he runs. When I run, he shoots. We play a tantalizing game, both of us the hunters, both of us the hunted.
Last Tuesday, he was shot. In the moment when both our worlds froze, we exchanged contact, and our eyes met, for the first, and hopefully, for the last time. In mine, I held resilience and strength, and in his, I saw fear.
While my heart raced, and the blood pulsed in my veins, a thousand synapses danced their ceaseless dance. The flesh of my cheek turned upward, as the warm, putrid air filled my mouth. In that moment, I was alive. I had won this battle.
The war is not yet over. We ricochet back and forth, like the slapping of a hockey puck against shattered ice. One battles ceases, and another begins, first in mud, then in wind. It has lasted months, yet there is far more to go. It may last years, the future, unknown.
The enemy is my breast tumor. I am the soldier. While I have lost battles, I have also won. My tumor will not prevent me from becoming the woman I wish to become, the one who breaks a familial cycle of oppressed, undereducated women. My tumor will not prevent me from being at the school, I so vehemently love, Northwestern. And my tumor most certainly will not prevent me from following the dreams I so desperately chase.
My enemy is strong, capable, and resilient, but I will not fail. I will take on the enemy, I will outstrip him, and I will win this war.