Let's get me into college...shall we?

So I write. I imagine you've figured this out- but now I'm writing with a purpose which is to get myself into those desired institutions of higher education, also known as college, or as the British say University, or for slang Uni.

I have written a few essays,which shockingly manage to stay within the 500 word limit- of this I am shocked as I am quite the wordy writer. I have no idea if any of what I've written is any good- I need them to be picked apart and crticized, because an average paper is not going to impress those admissions officers. So not being honest will only hurt me in the long run. I am asking you simply to take the time to read them and then to leave me a comment giving me your honest opinion and pointing out where you see flaws, weaknesses and where improvement would be some good.

Let's begin reading shall we,

PAPER ONE

When mentioning a "bell," as in those brass ringing apparatus', or what kept Quasimoto in business, most people will know what you are referring to. Most people also pass off bells as something insignificant. A small nothing in the grand scheme of things. An item that has no true impact upon them one way or another. I used to be one of those people, those people that fail to see the detail and depth to the simplest things. Or at least those things that appear to be simple. Yet, it was in spending my junior year abroad, as a foreign exchange student, in the Czech Republic, that my eyes were opened to the depth and complexity that bells consist of.

My host father, a trauma surgeon, who quite frequently repaired fractures, was also quite the skilled mender of bells. Shortly after arriving in the country, I traveled with him on one of his trips, and this love for bells he possessed was soon something I understood rather well.

We went through this short and wide wooden side door, and climbed up metal princess like tower steps. Once those ended, there were several flights of very old, steep, and rickety stairs, until finally, you had to climb up and out into the bell tower.
I settled myself down on this long piece of wood jarring out from the wall and watched as my host dad tended to his work.

It was strange because after that initial experience with bells I was drawn in. I was constantly thirsting for more knowledge concerning them, craving conversation in regards to them, because to me, they had become so much more than bells.
Every time the bells were heard, and the sound of what it was registered in my brain, I was reminded of all the small things in life, that make it worth while, that I had yet to discover.

In going to the Czech Republic, I had no intention of gaining knowledge of bells, or developing a love for them. Yet, that, in fact, is what happened. It was an unexpected occurrence; gain, something that will remain with me; the sound of repeating rings echoing in my ear, as a reminder of the year and how things slightly shifted. After the bells found me, I constantly found myself taking second glances at things I may have once overlooked. I was digging, delving, going beyond the surface, finding the detail; the depth. I had always been one to strive to discover depth, yet it now seemed deeper than it had before, and somehow even the detail seemed more precise. Yet in truth, they weren’t. Those things are incapable of changing, what had altered, was the way in which I chose to perceive things. An epiphany had occurred that was not to be disregarded, an internal revelation, a private victory. And to think, in the end, the root cause was something as simple as a bell.
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PAPER TWO
They say there comes a point in time when you realize you’ve grown up. A point where it hits you after it has already occurred, and Neverland turns into a place you truly wish existed. For me, however, it did not occur in this way, as I was aware of growing up in the midst of it.

My seventeenth year, I’d taken myself on exchange to a foreign land, where growing up would be forced upon me. That, was something I had not intended happening. Yet it turns out life in the Czech Republic is quite different in terms of the freedoms you are given and the responsibilities you take on.

I soon discovered that I was free to come and go as I pleased, within reason. Although I also discovered that the reasoning of parents in the Czech was beyond that, of what I, as a seventeen year old, often found reasonable. It also didn’t take long for me to see that dependence upon my host parents, for much at all, was not an option. It simply was not how things were done in the country I was occupying. When both of these things occur simultaneously; you are given near absolute freedom, and are handed the responsibility of the simplicities that make up the complexities of life, there is only one thing to do. Turn to yourself. Relay and depend on yourself.

At seventeen, I was aware of how easy it would be to dip my feet into the out of control seemingly limitless lifestyle, realize it wasn’t so bad, and start heading in that direction full speed. Yet, that choice to live limitless would have expired my stay in the country that was teaching me so much, would have forced me from the one place I’ve ever felt so in tune with myself. I realized, for me, that was not an option.

At seventeen I had to make the choice to set limits and boundaries for myself, to keep myself in check, because I was so very aware of the fact that no one was going to step in and do it for me. I was my responsibility, I had myself to answer to, and never, until then, had I have stood on my two feet and felt the whole weight of my body resting upon them,

It wasn’t easy, or flawless by any means. I was living in a world of trial and error. Sometimes the boundaries would be stretched, broken, and then I would have to step back and reflect. I had to decide if the boundaries had been too strict to begin with, or if I had gone and pushed the envelope too far. Yet, regardless if my choices proved to be wise or not, each one added a notch in the fast yet seemingly slow growing up phase. I was who I was becoming, and no longer who I’d been.

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PAPER THREE
I was leaving for a year. I was off to a city ninety miles south of Prague, that I couldn’t say, let alone spell to study and live as an exchange student. Going into it I knew I would be gone 364 days at most. No more; perhaps less. It was rather unsettling at times; the thought of leaving, yet the possibilities that I knew were available were endless and that was the rope that I was tangled in, that would never have allowed me to back down. Possibility. People tend to pass up possibilities far too often in life, I am more than guilty of this. I was not going to allow myself to wonder “what if” because I was going to be living the possibility not simply thinking about it.

Prior to leaving I had a defining moment with a stranger, a person I had never laid eyes on. A person I had never conversed with, whom I sat next to at an official dinner and conversed with for a span of three hours about various things including my impending exchange, and towards the end of the evening he claimed, “You have the personality and charm to do this, you will do just fine next year, your possibilities are endless.” Now, I could have easily came to those same conclusions on my own, been told those things by people that I was close to. Yet, the fact that they had come from a complete stranger, a person that made this judgment based on three hours conversing with me, a person that didn’t have to say those things and instead could have said nothing that is why I held onto those words. They did not have to be said, silence would have been perfectly happy existing during those few seconds it took for the stranger to utter those words, but it didn’t.

I spent the rest of the evening in my chair, next to that person, running over that one conclusion, one statement, realizing for the first time in a long time that those words were true, genuine, that they were said because they were meant. I am so glad that there are far too many people in this world to know them all. I appreciate the people that are strangers to me, as much as I appreciate those that know me through and through. Those strangers walk in, and walk right back out, while leaving you with a piece of something, an answer, a revelation. People you know walk in, and stay. The people that stay impact us continuously, but it’s the strangers I find, the one’s that leave, that leave lasting impressions.
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PAPER FOUR
Sometimes there is simply this indescribable ache that emerges through my fingers. They constrict ever so slightly and the longer I resist what they are trying to get across to me, the more forceful the constriction becomes until I buckle; simply give in to the message the fingers are trying to spell out for me. Most of the time I have no idea what the fingers are trying to tell me. It would make sense that it requires thought to make anything come from what the fingers have to say. That in truth, it is my head formulating thoughts and my hands simply releasing them. However, I do not agree with this exactly. Sure there are times when I make the conscious decision to sit down and write. Yet other times, it is more of a feeling I get and I provide my hands with the keyboard or the writing utensil of choice and let them work their magic. The words simply flow from a place I am not exactly in tune with, as I’m not always sure what is going to come out, until it has been engraved and is available for me to read, to set my eyes on and let the meaning sink in.


In talking to other people that occupy this world it is true that not all experience such a thing in regards to writing. It is not until you explain the sensation to someone who is not at all familiar with such a feeling, that you realize that the validating feeling you get to go through from formulating thoughts you didn’t even know existed, is not a natural pleasure for all. I consider myself lucky for being one that experiences such things, although I do not deem those that go without such experiences unlucky. I simply know a world in which such an occurrence is commonplace and expected. Those without it- have no true understanding of the sensation and inner warmth that occurs as the words flow through you and onto something tangible- becoming real, something you can see, instead of something that is simply felt.


I am most in tune with myself when I am able to tap into that part of myself that is always open, yet more free flowing at times when it is least expected. Some people would refer to what I’m talking about as a “gift”- I however, choose not to. I like to think of it more as an “ability.” An ability that I have to tap into, to go along with the urges that come, the intuition that tells me I best pick up a pen- If I think I can handle what it has to say- if I feel up to the task of seeing just what that pen will put to paper. Writing for me, is more than an action to go through, the words are who I am in my true form.

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alright again, any feedback- would be greatly appreciated. I have more that are in progress, so I'm sure they will be available soon.

HOPE ALL IS WELL