This is the essay for the Yale Supplement question which asks students to write something about them which isn't otherwise obvious from the application process.
With my dusty shoes sinking into the sand and my heavily tanned skin oozing sweat, I trudge along my daily route across the sandy stretches of Dubai, to catch a cab to my enrichment class. Walking ahead, I climb onto the footbridge. A hundred thoughts pop up in my overly congested mind as I stare at passers-by hurrying along. "That guy is talking to his boss". "That man is grimacing at his out dated iPod playlist". "That woman is staring at me suspiciously". And I turn my gaze away. I like observing people. One's habits are intertwined with one's sub conscience. No wonder detectives secretly tail their marks for days before closing in on them directly.
The footbridge conquered, it's time for the basement walk through the mall parking. I stare at the cars parked around me and imagine a life driving each one of those. In one, I would be a delivery boy, in another, an obedient worker in a quaint office, and in yet another, the CEO of a multinational corporation. It's funny how we are so fastidious about hierarchy in the workplace, yet when it comes to our cars, we always park them together. It is fascinating to note that irrespective of who we are, our cars form a homogeneous society, refusing to submit to protocol. If these peaceable motorized transporters could talk, I think they would second my words.
I'm out of the mall premises now. People are rushing past by the hundreds around me. The mad rush is a reminder of the anxious world that we live in. People are impatient and social interaction is crumbling. Yes, crumbling is the word. The tomfoolery of social media interaction has not substituted actual human conversation. It has just succeeded in creating a generation of increasingly introverted and socially awkward people who are hesitant to meet others. I salute those who buck the trend by using their internet accounts as subordinates to their real life discourses.
Nearing the end of my commute, I see the rows of cream colored cabs in the horizon and am struck with a realization. Each day, the worker in me converses with the traveller in me who relays the message to the observer and this connection builds up the person that I am. As I enter the nearest taxicab, I think of that significance of my walk, which will lead me into the hallowed portal of Phelps Gate. This will pave new avenues for me to continue my perambulation in the colder climes of New Haven, observing the world with each passing step.
