This summer, I lived in a condition that would have made Henry David Thoreau very proud. I lived in thin wooden walls on a mountain far from prying eyes and slept under a haze-free night sky. My needs were met and that was pretty much it. Everything that I had, I cherished dearly because, frankly, I didn't have the luxury of owning enough stuff to have preferences either way.
I loved everything I had but I must say that I loved my boots especially. With treated, hardened, brown leather, they were an essential cog in the machine of my simple life. The heels ripped and tore at the ground exactly the way I wanted them to. The ridged tunnel of the boot wrapped up my milky calves and rocked them warm as I trudged through cold mud and thorns and darkness. While I spent my day running and laughing and screaming, they followed me and took my beating. I woke up the morning after a night spent swimming in a lake so black it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the water began to find my boots caked in thick, dry, crumbling dirt and my calves immaculate, spared the punishment I imagine mother nature gave to us in return for the full advantage we took of her untouched beauty. I spent the next day using my sweater/towel to make sure the boots were actually still there under all the mud and once I was sure they were and that they were intact I breathed easy. What would I have done without them? They came back the way most things do from endless nights of battle, scarred, but these, I think, are the best kind of scars. They are scars from living. They are scars from use. They are proof that at some point I lived voraciously and I never want them healed.
I brought them home with me after the summer as they were still intact, which is honestly pretty impressive on their part, but the life they live now is different.
They are no longer necessary to me the way they used to be. The rough soles attack the yellowed linoleum I spend my day pacing. Locked in a cement cage, they wait patiently while the scars of my summer blend in among a sea of accessories that cost to look derelict. The meaning blurs and gets lost along a life of purposeless high fashion. The leather creaks and aches from a lack of exercise but there is nothing I can do. I remember that this is real life and summer is, after all, only a temporary condition.
They sit in the back of my closet. The sealed leather and thick wooden heals now obsolete. As I settle into my normal life I almost don't notice the purpose slipping. I don't notice the walls. I don't notice I'm tame. But then I slip my boots on-and in a glorious moment I can still confidently say almost.
Ok, this is really just a first draft of an essay that i had to write for school but i kind of like it and i think it gives a really great example of my writing style. im just not too sure about the essay topic, like, what does this essay really say about me? What i mostly want my schools to get out of my common app essay is about how i think. i want it to give off the impression that im actually a significant intellectual. I was thinking about maybe tieing more of Walden into it?
i dont know, what do you think?
I loved everything I had but I must say that I loved my boots especially. With treated, hardened, brown leather, they were an essential cog in the machine of my simple life. The heels ripped and tore at the ground exactly the way I wanted them to. The ridged tunnel of the boot wrapped up my milky calves and rocked them warm as I trudged through cold mud and thorns and darkness. While I spent my day running and laughing and screaming, they followed me and took my beating. I woke up the morning after a night spent swimming in a lake so black it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the water began to find my boots caked in thick, dry, crumbling dirt and my calves immaculate, spared the punishment I imagine mother nature gave to us in return for the full advantage we took of her untouched beauty. I spent the next day using my sweater/towel to make sure the boots were actually still there under all the mud and once I was sure they were and that they were intact I breathed easy. What would I have done without them? They came back the way most things do from endless nights of battle, scarred, but these, I think, are the best kind of scars. They are scars from living. They are scars from use. They are proof that at some point I lived voraciously and I never want them healed.
I brought them home with me after the summer as they were still intact, which is honestly pretty impressive on their part, but the life they live now is different.
They are no longer necessary to me the way they used to be. The rough soles attack the yellowed linoleum I spend my day pacing. Locked in a cement cage, they wait patiently while the scars of my summer blend in among a sea of accessories that cost to look derelict. The meaning blurs and gets lost along a life of purposeless high fashion. The leather creaks and aches from a lack of exercise but there is nothing I can do. I remember that this is real life and summer is, after all, only a temporary condition.
They sit in the back of my closet. The sealed leather and thick wooden heals now obsolete. As I settle into my normal life I almost don't notice the purpose slipping. I don't notice the walls. I don't notice I'm tame. But then I slip my boots on-and in a glorious moment I can still confidently say almost.
Ok, this is really just a first draft of an essay that i had to write for school but i kind of like it and i think it gives a really great example of my writing style. im just not too sure about the essay topic, like, what does this essay really say about me? What i mostly want my schools to get out of my common app essay is about how i think. i want it to give off the impression that im actually a significant intellectual. I was thinking about maybe tieing more of Walden into it?
i dont know, what do you think?