In this morning's practice test, I scored 2260 at the 2012.10 SAT, so I think I'm entitled to some leisure of writing. With regards to my ever unpredictable college application, I'm going to write the first draft of the Additional Information section on Common Application. For I don't have an idea of what it should be, it's prudent to write several candidate versions.
Concerned my reader (evidently in this case the Admissions Officer) might not have much time, I think it fair to synopsize the contents at the first. In this writing that the author and the reader alike take considerable pain, I will create a series of parallels between the events in my writing, which recounts the moment I transmuted myself, and those of the 18 years I've spent.
I'm trendy, I don't use lunar calendar, which my parents have for their birthdays. I write with both hands, and that's not of wide availability. My name is very cutting edge; it literally means Universe Development Chan. But there was a time when I didn't know that, and felt way happier.
The beginning of time never allowed big worlds - papa, mama, me, and an apartment beside the river that is dug three thousand years ago were everything. The building I live was constructed after the Opening-up Policy, therefore hardly had any degree of history. But when I was a little boy, it seemed old, older than anything else, and was worthy of my awe. I woke up every morning in it with wonder - the plaster on the wall was brindled with complex pattern that I couldn't recognize. I spent a lot of time pondering its denotation. Mostly I failed, and I forgot, and I had a good time. For other, a bulkier portion of time, I ate. A bowl of congee that came with a bottle of milk took me hours to finish. I had everything in my hand except chopsticks - they were in my mother's hand. She would follow me around in the tiny room as I explored and found inspiration for doodling. By then I just learned the first character in my life, the Hill, so I drew it, in such an awkward, arrhythmic shape. But I wasn't evolved enough to interpret laughter as self-irony. I made my first business card for Alien Defense Ministry, an agency which I headed, and actually gave it out, in a magisterial face. Sometimes when the house needed extensive tidying, my papa would put me on the backseat of his squeaky bicycle, and squeak, squeak, I was then taken to mysterious places such as shopping malls and grandpa's house.
There were few obstacles on the road, traffic light were yet to replace police officers dressed like PLA officers. But the journey was long, long enough I could talk to my father without haste, and he always had a way to answer it. The people around us looked kind without the smiley icon, the grass was fresh and green, and colors, all kinds of colors, were overwhelmingly bright. The only defect was that my shadow was very short on the ground. So one night, after my mom told me a story about a planet full of people with animal heads, I hoped to grow up quickly, hoped that one day I could reach the top of the cabinet without bother, and I turned to sleep.
Well, I didn't expect it to come true. In fact I never felt it did, until I looked behind, so true that it startled. It was then several years later. I was in my middle school, and I went by a river, beside it, was a lawn. And before the lawn existed, there was my home. It had gone, like my papa's bicycle, papa himself, grandpa's house and grandpa himself. Overdose killed my grandpa, and divorce literally killed me father. I went visiting my papa when I didn't have homework, or exam or anything else. And he appeared bad, which partly counted as my reason of visiting, but I was civilized enough to look still. He told me, or rather confessed to me, that he had waited 10 years for the marriage with my mom, and she did nothing but spent another 10 years to replace him with another person. I said nothing. I looked down on my shoes to search for a way to tell him that there was no more another person, who had gone too without a notice. There wasn't such a way. I left after dinner for I didn't want to stay. After I returned home, I locked myself in the bathroom - I'd long been using bathroom as a place for absolute privacy. I didn't cry in there, but I looked at myself in the mirror, which was worse. I stared at my asymmetric image, and what manifested within it over-glittered any incongruity. The face looked polished, by ambivalence rare in the adolescence. The eyes were brown and black, dull color drained of magic - that perhaps was the reason it attracted multiple unsuccessful girls. The hair was untonsured - no one could see my anyway. The brows were furrowed as if something continuously disturbed the head behind them. And from the ensemble of the vorticism of youth and contemplation, there was a calm indifference, a gratuitous misgiving of any impulse that drove me to do anything other than keep stoic, because anything else added to my nausea of that indifference and misgiving. The thin, translucent glass called memory thrilled with fear in the corner of my body, and my ration was triumphant for easily erasing any clue that represented stupidity and immature. Sometimes my mind was full of narcissistic questions of self-importance, and some other times my mind was full of narcissistic lack of it. I had questions, but no one could answer them, so I no longer had questions and felt nothing and filled the mug and brushed my teeth.
P: I'm sensing that the length of this article has already exceeded the maximum patience of my potential reader. Purportedly they only have 7 minutes per application, so I should instead directly list the thoughts I was about to incorporate into this article, so that in the future I can have a swift understanding of the progress I'm making at the present.
#I'm not gifted, I'm not an automation, but I couldn't let anyone get aware of that. Because the reality has been only temporarily quarantined, and as long as the self-deception vanishes, I'm not able to handle the backlash. The transition from childhood to adulthood must involve some disillusion, but I'm the one trying to reverse the process, by doing something I'd hoped to do since a very early age. Thus for this endeavor I put myself in a predicament very hard to alter. There's no "backsies", only relegations, to my however perfect acceptance.
#My life is a repetition of something that has been repeated, a vicious cycle, a life under the shadow of life, but I keep doing it in hope of something different, like a doctor keeps defibrillating the corpse to fluctuate the flatline.
#I walked on the street that'd been walked a million times, and felt what a millionth should feel.
#When I whimsically alighted on the fringe of absurdism, in the peculiar atmosphere amidst this desert the time began to elapse in an aristocratic desolation, in the outward direction of my being, and in the inclement edge of my duality.
#I tend not to take offense, because I'm troubled by the futility of pointing out and the participation of ensuing consequences.
#Among the vast unchangingness of the sky, I, an equal of its monopoly, carefully narrate my traces, and solitude is my only listener.
