A Critique of my College Essay
Reread, reread, edit, reread. The words seem stale and lifeless. One word deleted here, another added there. It’s stilted, forced, faked. My eyes begin to glaze over. I can’t write any more of this.
The problem with my college essay is that it doesn’t sound like me. There’s no coherence or unity to what I’ve written. What am I supposed to be writing about? They want me to show them who I am. My thoughts, my ideas are who I am, but when I think I tend to ramble. The concept of infinity has been on my mind recently, along with Plato’s idea of the Good. Not useful. My mind drifts off to the upcoming fencing season. No unity. I wonder where I left my cell phone. No coherence. Still, the ramblings show more about me than any anecdote ever could. They reach deep, very deep. So much else just skims the surface.
It’s choppy. It’s sloppy. It makes no sense. How could I focus on just one facet of myself? “Write an essay describing yourself in 500 words.” Isn’t that insulting? As if I’m only worth 500 words. That’s all I get. A picture gets 1000 words, I get half that. Maybe I should send them half a picture. “This is all I’m worth,” it’ll say.
Choppy. Sloppy.
What are they looking for? Good writers? Good thinkers? Do they really want me, or do they want to be entertained? I can entertain, but that’s not me. No one is funny at their core. They’re tired and sad and beautiful and blissful. But not funny at heart. Or at least, I’m not.
Ch. Oppy.
I’m never sure what’s expected of me. People seem to get angry with me when I think too much. They get confused when I’m reading philosophy or solving math problems when it’s not required of me. “Is this for school?” “No.” “Then why are you doing it?” They’re accusing me of something. Never sure what it is. What is supposed to occupy my thoughts? Is it as interesting as infinity?
I don’t say I’m interested in physics and philosophy to sound smart. I realized a while back that people aren’t impressed. Usually they’re just annoyed. They live in the physical, concrete world, the real world. I’m far below the surface, living in the abstract. The cool, quiet abstract. You’re allowed plenty of space when you live inside your own mind. Sometimes I’m brought back to the surface, and I’m grateful for that. But I like it underground, so I’ll stay there for now. And if anyone needs me they can pull me back up for a little while.
The problem with my college essay is that I’m stuffing too much of myself into too small of a space. Nothing fits quite right and I’m twisting and morphing myself so the cover fits on the box. None of me is willing to shrink, so I’m left fighting for space. Disjointed, abstract, not unified. Maybe that’s who I am.