Facing Death Again :: Graduate College Admissions Essays

Facing Death Again I've been having adventures this summer. In July I cranked my new new car up to 110 mph and flew alone for two days in the desert, saw a dead polar bear in a coffee shop, marched in a parade, and scattered Dad's ashes in an open meadow. For the most part, though, my adventures have been internal. I am making a feeble attempt at a teenage life crisis, but so far it hasn't amounted to much - just a lot of pacing, brooding, and long, exhausting mental hikes down roads not taken. My mom has been patient throughout. One of my melancholy realizations is that my remarkable network of teenage friends, once so closely-knit, are now scattered to the wind and so deeply entangled in their own lives that I have very few people left to talk to. At school I have a first-rate cadre of friends, and long lunches every day, but we keep each other, always, at a certain distance. Other old friends are reachable by phone, and I've reached, but there are always parties or impatient girlfriends in the background. It takes great resourcefulness, and much juggling of schedules, to pry loose a few precious minutes on the phone, and in those minutes there are bridges to be built and private languages to be rediscovered before any real conversation can take place. And my dearest friend, is off somewhere in the easternmost Alps, drinking Viennese coffee and nibbling on Viennese pastries, as far away as she could possibly be. "Midway this way of life we're bound upon, I woke to find myself in a dark wood, Where the right road was wholly lost and gone." My own attempt at a teenage life crisis is not near so dark or fraught with peril as was Dante's. In fact it's all so by-the-book and so perfectly on schedule as to be dreary: I turn eighteen, my father dies, and I'm on my way. With my father's death I now advance to the plate. I am up next. It is now officially my turn to face the reaper. Being the morbid, romantic fellow I am, I actually faced (embraced!) all this mortality business long ago. As a young lad I used to write "Respice Finem" on snowbanks and dusty windowshields: "Consider Your End." Death itself hasn't bothered me for a long time, and I'm old enough now to understand what Mark Twain said about death, that it becomes our best friend. Facing Death Again :: Graduate College Admissions Essays Facing Death Again I've been having adventures this summer. In July I cranked my new new car up to 110 mph and flew alone for two days in the desert, saw a dead polar bear in a coffee shop, marched in a parade, and scattered Dad's ashes in an open meadow. For the most part, though, my adventures have been internal. I am making a feeble attempt at a teenage life crisis, but so far it hasn't amounted to much - just a lot of pacing, brooding, and long, exhausting mental hikes down roads not taken. My mom has been patient throughout. One of my melancholy realizations is that my remarkable network of teenage friends, once so closely-knit, are now scattered to the wind and so deeply entangled in their own lives that I have very few people left to talk to. At school I have a first-rate cadre of friends, and long lunches every day, but we keep each other, always, at a certain distance. Other old friends are reachable by phone, and I've reached, but there are always parties or impatient girlfriends in the background. It takes great resourcefulness, and much juggling of schedules, to pry loose a few precious minutes on the phone, and in those minutes there are bridges to be built and private languages to be rediscovered before any real conversation can take place. And my dearest friend, is off somewhere in the easternmost Alps, drinking Viennese coffee and nibbling on Viennese pastries, as far away as she could possibly be. "Midway this way of life we're bound upon, I woke to find myself in a dark wood, Where the right road was wholly lost and gone." My own attempt at a teenage life crisis is not near so dark or fraught with peril as was Dante's. In fact it's all so by-the-book and so perfectly on schedule as to be dreary: I turn eighteen, my father dies, and I'm on my way. With my father's death I now advance to the plate. I am up next. It is now officially my turn to face the reaper. Being the morbid, romantic fellow I am, I actually faced (embraced!) all this mortality business long ago. As a young lad I used to write "Respice Finem" on snowbanks and dusty windowshields: "Consider Your End." Death itself hasn't bothered me for a long time, and I'm old enough now to understand what Mark Twain said about death, that it becomes our best friend.