Prompt: Imagine looking through a window at any environment that is particularly significant to you. Reflect on the scene, paying close attention to the relation between what you are seeing and why it is meaningful to you. Please limit your statement to 300 words.
Through a window made of dancing pixels, I see an awful figure that looks uncannily like me. He is pale, freckled, and ghastly thin. His hair is greasy, and his t-shirt's too big. He fumbles with a microphone and starts to speak, but his voice falters like a screeching violin. He hasn't gotten much sleep lately: he's too busy capturing everything on video, for a documentary that he hopes will be finished someday.
Three years have passed since I recorded that video diary, and much has changed. I've cut my hair and started visiting gyms. I've switched to contact lenses and bought clothes that fit. I've also learned to let my voice rumble, so the utterances sound pleasant and deep. I feel like a new man now - even friends from high school can hardly recognize me.
But the video is a window that looks through time, and wouldn't let me leave my past behind. Though I've recorded much more dreadful things - girl afflicted by depression, parents shattered at their child's funeral - it is the past self that makes me blush and cringe. I want to scream at that loathsome figure, "Imposter!" But I can't, and he is not.
Looking at me through the window, the boy talks about his dreams. He loves movies, and is fond of writing. He's so excited about making the documentary that he could hardly sleep. "I'll be a famous director someday," he says. "Like Ang Lee." His voice gathers strength and his eyes seem to gleam. I smile and find my angers gone. There's a part of him that is, and always will be, a part of me.
Pausing the video, I proceed to finish the film he had started. This diary I recorded three years ago would make a perfect opening.
(Word Count: 300)
Through a window made of dancing pixels, I see an awful figure that looks uncannily like me. He is pale, freckled, and ghastly thin. His hair is greasy, and his t-shirt's too big. He fumbles with a microphone and starts to speak, but his voice falters like a screeching violin. He hasn't gotten much sleep lately: he's too busy capturing everything on video, for a documentary that he hopes will be finished someday.
Three years have passed since I recorded that video diary, and much has changed. I've cut my hair and started visiting gyms. I've switched to contact lenses and bought clothes that fit. I've also learned to let my voice rumble, so the utterances sound pleasant and deep. I feel like a new man now - even friends from high school can hardly recognize me.
But the video is a window that looks through time, and wouldn't let me leave my past behind. Though I've recorded much more dreadful things - girl afflicted by depression, parents shattered at their child's funeral - it is the past self that makes me blush and cringe. I want to scream at that loathsome figure, "Imposter!" But I can't, and he is not.
Looking at me through the window, the boy talks about his dreams. He loves movies, and is fond of writing. He's so excited about making the documentary that he could hardly sleep. "I'll be a famous director someday," he says. "Like Ang Lee." His voice gathers strength and his eyes seem to gleam. I smile and find my angers gone. There's a part of him that is, and always will be, a part of me.
Pausing the video, I proceed to finish the film he had started. This diary I recorded three years ago would make a perfect opening.
(Word Count: 300)
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