I am hopeless for your help. This is my common app essay, and I am pretty sure I have made a mess. Please advice me. Thank you a lot!
Could you say me if the title is apt:
A song for a spike
Modestly speaking, I am blessed with many good qualities. I can solve Olympiad math problems and can prepare the best spaghetti alla arrabiata in the world. I can do up to 30 push-ups, and I am able to tie my shoelaces in a unique way. I always fall asleep with a book, possibly "The Shadow of the Wind" or one of Remarque's novels, lying on my chest. I am capable of holding a passionate discussion with my dad on fluorescent light bulbs, my environmental heroes. Truthfully, I am not the tidiest person, but when I do decide to clean up the house, I render it perfectly spotless.
There is one thing, though, I do feel sorry about: my singing. I would love to be able to produce tender, heart-melting, powerful sounds from my larynx. I feel music is inside me, just too submerged to ever reach the surface in a serenading manner. But I refuse to surrender. I have discovered that something becomes really impossible only when you cease trying to make it possible.
My memory never lets me down when it comes to evidence: I still can vividly recall my first attempts at volleyball. Once, I felt as though my role on the court was just that of a static, decorative figure to fill up a position. At first, I thought that I was simply not cut for volleyball: one cannot possibly be good at everything, right? However, deep inside I felt a passion for that 270-gram ball with white, blue, and yellow stripes that would take off with a wonderful serve and beat the center of the court. I loved the smiles, the enthusiasm, the team spirit, the shout "Ace" that would come from their hearts and echo in my ears. I wanted to be a part of it, I really did...
That fantasy was annihilated with each progressive ball hurling towards me from every direction as I stood in the middle of the court. "What in the world was I thinking?!" It was a nightmare, worse still, a nightmare that I, myself, had chosen when I joined a volleyball club. The first day of training, I hurt my finger, and the next day it mirrored a round, violet sausage. My sane, critical thinking was telling me to quit. With all due respect, I decided not to listen to it.
Sweat. Twisted ankle. Aching muscles. Exhausted from serves and spikes, pull ups and dips, core stability exercises and power push-ups. Still I was headstrong. A few difficult months had to pass before I noticed changes. Changes - what a beautiful, arduous word! Today, two years later, I still stand there, in the center, under a rain of angry balls. The difference? I know how to handle them. Some will come past me nevertheless; I still have much to learn, much to improve. Yet I am excited at the thought that, day by day, I am pushing the limits of what I once thought I could or could not do.
Some may think that music does not have much to do with this experience, since it is chiefly an innate talent and not something to achieve solely by hard work. However, I believe that the solutions to both matters lie in the very same spot: profound passion. If the vocal chords in my larynx are not particularly well suited to emit a melodic tune, skilled fingers and a music-loving heart will do. I am elated when I cradle a guitar and feel its breathtaking sounds overwhelm me. My melodies are far from perfect, but that does not even matter to me. I am happy to have found a way to express my probably amateurish, but nonetheless deep, passion for music.
I feel I have undergone such a substantial change because of these two experiences. They have made me understand that it is our love for something rather than the existing achievement that defines what we truly are.
Music and sport are so inherently different. Bizarre as it may be, however, there is this one thing that makes them synonymous to me: love. With it in my heart, I can, and yes, I will, find a way.
Could you say me if the title is apt:
A song for a spike
Modestly speaking, I am blessed with many good qualities. I can solve Olympiad math problems and can prepare the best spaghetti alla arrabiata in the world. I can do up to 30 push-ups, and I am able to tie my shoelaces in a unique way. I always fall asleep with a book, possibly "The Shadow of the Wind" or one of Remarque's novels, lying on my chest. I am capable of holding a passionate discussion with my dad on fluorescent light bulbs, my environmental heroes. Truthfully, I am not the tidiest person, but when I do decide to clean up the house, I render it perfectly spotless.
There is one thing, though, I do feel sorry about: my singing. I would love to be able to produce tender, heart-melting, powerful sounds from my larynx. I feel music is inside me, just too submerged to ever reach the surface in a serenading manner. But I refuse to surrender. I have discovered that something becomes really impossible only when you cease trying to make it possible.
My memory never lets me down when it comes to evidence: I still can vividly recall my first attempts at volleyball. Once, I felt as though my role on the court was just that of a static, decorative figure to fill up a position. At first, I thought that I was simply not cut for volleyball: one cannot possibly be good at everything, right? However, deep inside I felt a passion for that 270-gram ball with white, blue, and yellow stripes that would take off with a wonderful serve and beat the center of the court. I loved the smiles, the enthusiasm, the team spirit, the shout "Ace" that would come from their hearts and echo in my ears. I wanted to be a part of it, I really did...
That fantasy was annihilated with each progressive ball hurling towards me from every direction as I stood in the middle of the court. "What in the world was I thinking?!" It was a nightmare, worse still, a nightmare that I, myself, had chosen when I joined a volleyball club. The first day of training, I hurt my finger, and the next day it mirrored a round, violet sausage. My sane, critical thinking was telling me to quit. With all due respect, I decided not to listen to it.
Sweat. Twisted ankle. Aching muscles. Exhausted from serves and spikes, pull ups and dips, core stability exercises and power push-ups. Still I was headstrong. A few difficult months had to pass before I noticed changes. Changes - what a beautiful, arduous word! Today, two years later, I still stand there, in the center, under a rain of angry balls. The difference? I know how to handle them. Some will come past me nevertheless; I still have much to learn, much to improve. Yet I am excited at the thought that, day by day, I am pushing the limits of what I once thought I could or could not do.
Some may think that music does not have much to do with this experience, since it is chiefly an innate talent and not something to achieve solely by hard work. However, I believe that the solutions to both matters lie in the very same spot: profound passion. If the vocal chords in my larynx are not particularly well suited to emit a melodic tune, skilled fingers and a music-loving heart will do. I am elated when I cradle a guitar and feel its breathtaking sounds overwhelm me. My melodies are far from perfect, but that does not even matter to me. I am happy to have found a way to express my probably amateurish, but nonetheless deep, passion for music.
I feel I have undergone such a substantial change because of these two experiences. They have made me understand that it is our love for something rather than the existing achievement that defines what we truly are.
Music and sport are so inherently different. Bizarre as it may be, however, there is this one thing that makes them synonymous to me: love. With it in my heart, I can, and yes, I will, find a way.
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