hey guys
this is my common app essay, im open to and welcome any editing/comments/oppinion anyone may have. i would really appreciate anything. i need to send it out tomorow so anything you have to say will be of great use im sure!
Topic of Your Choice
I sit here, with my pen about a millimetre away from my paper, waiting. What am I waiting for? I don't know. Inspiration I suppose. An idea maybe. I can almost feel the neurons in my brain, making their connections, rampaging my mind's content, searching for inspiration. Searching for something to write about. Something that might trigger that auspicious moment where everything flows effortlessly, through my brain and into my pen, and it thus starts dancing across the page creating a masterpiece. The paper is my canvas, the pen my brush, and words, syllables, sentences, allusions, metaphors my strokes. Ultimately, after hours of labours, effortless dancing, my pen stops, dots in the final period. And clicks closed. Done. A masterpiece.
But it's not that simple is it. At least not for me. I look to my table on my left and see a pile of books. My own mini library. All masterpieces. On the cover of the book on top, I see a picture of a statue of a fierce looking man on a horse, his stern eyes gazing into the distance. The Prince, Machiavelli. I wonder if his ideas flew onto paper, if his brain was effortless in transcribing its beautiful ideas. Under Machiavelli, I see Tolkien, another masterpiece, then Rowling, Osborn. A few history books there after: Dennis Smith's Mussolini, Lynch, Palmer and Colton. Then some more political works: Marx, Sun Tzu. Hawking at the side. Masterpieces. Each book, a testament to their thoughts, immortalizes the author's ideas and so, in a sense, immortalizes the author himself.
That, I think, is how one measures the quality of a man's life. By assessing the number of people his life has changed. If one cannot touch the lives of others, what point is there in living. After all, happiness only exists when shared. Otherwise, you are just one in the 12 billion odd other self oriented lives parading the planet, laying waste to the planet, ignoring its decaying state. If I live, that, I think, is how I should live. Or at least, that is how I should strive to live; to epitomize my life, as far as possible, to help people in any way possible.
"This is a mistake" I can remember him saying . "It is a mistake to get too deep into this kind of stuff". We live, we die, and the wheels on the bus go round and round. That is his perspective. That he would say is the more practical way to approach life. Just be satisfied and make do with your place and with what you have. "Not everyone can be great," he said, "in fact most people can't. You have to be born with it. In any case, there is nothing wrong with mediocrity." Him being my father, I sat there and nodded, quietly listening. I almost thought he is right. In fact, I wanted him to be right. But in the back of my mind I found, as I find even today, an itching dissatisfaction with this suburban life. I, so desperately, yearn for my life to mean so much more.
For me, the contribution I want to make to the world is through healthcare, particularly for children. Five years ago, while playing with my friends at a local park, I fell and hit my head on some nearby rocks. My neighbour took me to a local hospital where they told me, using a lot of big words I didn't understand at the time, that I had a 'brain haemorrhage' and that it was not too serious right now, but it has the possibility of getting far worse, and if it did they did not have the facilities to treat me there. So, just in case, they boarded me on an ambulance and sent me to the famed Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto where I was admitted to the neurology department. From my time at the hospital, what I distinctly remember most is the horrid, heart wrenching screams of a boy in a room across the hall that kept me awake every night. I never found out what was wrong with him, I was too afraid to ask, but on my last day at the hospital, as I was checking out, I remember seeing him being wheeled out of his room by a nurse and his parents. The strange look on the boy's face and the unusual posture of his hands and feet along with the mournful, half-hearted smile his mother gave me, haunt me still today. It led me to learn more about mental disorders children have and thus led me to volunteer with Erinoak Kids. The gentile lifesaving work of the doctors there left a lasting impression. It made me, one day, to want to work in such an acclaimed and pivotal institution, changing the lives of hundreds of children on a daily basis.
My pen is now seemingly gliding across my page. Scribbling one word after the next. Yes, this is the feeling I was waiting for. With my sister's clipboard in hand, flashlight on my shoulder gleaming onto the page, the blank page is now full. I can hear my sleeping sister's steady breath on the couch adjacent, my father's cyclical snores from upstairs, the clock slowly ticking away, and some car rushing by in the distance, sitting here in this tranquil night, I know I will make it. *Click*
Thanks!! :)