I am filing the Common Application and will be submitting this under "Topic of your choice". Please critique if possible.
When I write this world is gone. I am past our solar system, through and through space on my own planet where only my creations and I can survive.
The planets' sky is words. Endless sentences wrap the sky as if you were inside a snow globe with everything ever written scribbled on the glass. There is no sun for my planet, the words are like stars they light themselves and so light my planet. The shadows on the ground are my own words. The breeze tickling my cheek is like brail, I can feel the words that it wants to say. I need no pen nor paper in my world. I need nothing but my imagination.
My planet holds other universes, worlds, cities, places, and people all of which I have created. I never have to stop creating. Endless are the words and endless is my world. Immobile, I am not. In a lovely little city where trees are white as snow with leaves the brightest gold, and the shutters on the buildings are pale pastels, to a trek of land, lifeless, that is completely flat red rocks except for one lone silver arrow stuck in the ground shimmering against the burning glare of light from my words. The places are infinitely changeable. There is no point of exhaustion for them. There is not a "No way out" or "One Way" sign. They are endless, with almost a life of their own.
Writing is the way, I believe, that mere human catapult ourselves to being Omni-parent and omniscient. It is an escape and jail at the same time. For, once you taste writing in its truest form you are incapable of "just" writing. You can never truly stop writing for being a writer is endless.
When I write this world is gone. I am past our solar system, through and through space on my own planet where only my creations and I can survive.
The planets' sky is words. Endless sentences wrap the sky as if you were inside a snow globe with everything ever written scribbled on the glass. There is no sun for my planet, the words are like stars they light themselves and so light my planet. The shadows on the ground are my own words. The breeze tickling my cheek is like brail, I can feel the words that it wants to say. I need no pen nor paper in my world. I need nothing but my imagination.
My planet holds other universes, worlds, cities, places, and people all of which I have created. I never have to stop creating. Endless are the words and endless is my world. Immobile, I am not. In a lovely little city where trees are white as snow with leaves the brightest gold, and the shutters on the buildings are pale pastels, to a trek of land, lifeless, that is completely flat red rocks except for one lone silver arrow stuck in the ground shimmering against the burning glare of light from my words. The places are infinitely changeable. There is no point of exhaustion for them. There is not a "No way out" or "One Way" sign. They are endless, with almost a life of their own.
Writing is the way, I believe, that mere human catapult ourselves to being Omni-parent and omniscient. It is an escape and jail at the same time. For, once you taste writing in its truest form you are incapable of "just" writing. You can never truly stop writing for being a writer is endless.
