No.13 -

1. Version 1: no real meaning tbh, I honestly don't even know why this would be a good essay for my personal statement

Sunday, August 4th, 2024, 7:49 pm. The date and time are engraved forever.

My avoidant nature of recalling hard memories, brushing aside the parts of myself I didn’t like as if they’d vanish with time, have always been prevalent. But something about that Sunday—the storm outside, my own storm inside—made me question this instinct to forcibly forget.

I was in Room 1305 of Warren Towers at Boston University, overlooking the restless waters of the Charles River. The evening was a tempest—not just outside, with rain assaulting the windows and wind howling—but within me. The storm mirrored my chaos, each gust a swirl of unspoken fears and anxieties.

Half-solved number theory problems were scattered on the table, equations trailing off into quadratic reciprocity. An empty Google Doc glowed on my laptop, cursor blinking expectantly. Noise-canceling headphones muffled the world but amplified my racing thoughts.

A trivial question haunted me: "What matters to you?”

I: "@frisbee throwing at the Esplanade at 6pm! Meet at Marciano"
A: "Need 1 more for fish, wanna join?"
E: “Who wants to work on the PSet together?"

Messages from friends glowed on my phone, each one offering a distraction from my turmoil, but none could pull me away.

Time warped. Minutes bled into hours, yet every second felt heavy. The rhythmic clatter of the Green Line trains below, usually comforting, was now a relentless metronome ticking away my stagnant state.

As the clock neared 7:30 pm, a subtle shift occurred.

A single ray of sunlight pierces the clouds, casting a sliver of gold across my desk. Something stirred—a quiet urge I couldn't ignore. I removed my headphones and stood, drawn to the window. The rain had softened to a gentle drizzle.

I ran outside in beige short sleeves, gray shorts, and flip flops along with a beige cap in the showering rain. Sunset after the rain is a guaranteed beauty; the red and gold rays of the sun reflect upon the yet-to-be-evaporated rain, and the sky turns excessively blue from the humidity.

That Sunday, I witnessed the most unforgettable sunset. The gradient in the sky was softer than any existing watercolor paintings. And most importantly, a huge rainbow was drawn across the sky. So big that I had to physically draw my head around the sky to fully trace the seven colors.

Now here’s my answer to the question:
I still have no idea. All my life has been like skating on thin ice: something in me has always been flimsy and could shatter apart anytime. It seems so dangerous but graceful, especially the tracings of my past memories left as skate marks on ice, drawing pleasing patterns, reminding me of the satisfying sounds of the skate blade carving the ice.

When you are so low in life, you can only go up.

The sunset I saw that Sunday represents hope and resilience amidst the darkness. In this sunset, I found a glimmer of clarity and beauty—something that prompted me to break through the emotional storm. No matter how dark where I am, eventually light will come in, brightening up the room, and possibly, me too. Regardless of how uncertain things are, I choose to hold onto this significantly agonizing memory, hoping that it will serve as the light guiding through the fragile ice.

Each day, I wake before the sunrise and sleep after the sunset. As I observe the sun's steady rise and fall, I feel the echoes of my own ups and downs. Yet even as I follow this daily rhythm, a part of me still awaits for the sunray I glimpsed on August 4th, 2024, at 7:49 pm on the Boston streets—a ray that broke through the storm, promising light even in the darkest of moments.

Now, rather than letting memories slip away, I’m learning to hold onto the light they bring, even in the grim shadows.

1. Version 2: tried to make version 1 sound like it has some meanings, but I didn't like how I lost all the imagery I tried to convey

Sunday, August 4th, 2024, 7:49 pm. The date and time are engraved forever.

My tendency to hide imperfections, brushing aside parts I didn’t like as if they’d vanish with time, had always been prevalent. But something about that Sunday—the storm outside mirroring the one within me—made me question this instinct to forcibly hide.

All my life has been like skating on thin ice: something in me has always been flimsy and could shatter apart anytime. Past memories were often covered in its own ways—as if the zambonis would smooth the surface of ice, so that the unpleasant marks are never to be seen again.

I was in Room 1305 of Warren Towers at Boston University, overlooking the restless waters of the Charles River. The evening was a tempest—not just outside, with rain assaulting the windows and wind howling—but within me. The storm mirrored my chaos, each gust a swirl of unspoken fears and anxieties.

Half-solved number theory problems were scattered on the table, equations trailing off into quadratic reciprocity. An empty Google Doc glowed on my laptop, cursor blinking expectantly. Noise-canceling headphones muffled the world but amplified my racing thoughts.

A trivial question haunted me: "How do I only show the best?”

In theory, I fully understand that nothing—not even God himself—can approach perfection. Everything takes trial and error: through mistakes, we learn, develop, and evolve. However, I, a self-proclaimed perfectionist, just seemed to believe that everything could be right on the first try—that I could hide every flaw as long as I projected only the best parts.

Every raindrop offered me a distraction from my turmoil, but none could pull me away.

Time warped. Minutes bled into hours, yet every second felt heavy. The rhythmic clatter of the Green Line trains below, usually comforting, was now a relentless metronome ticking away my stagnant state.

As the clock neared 7:30 pm, a subtle shift occurred.

A single ray of sunlight pierces the clouds, casting a sliver of gold across my desk. Something stirred—a quiet urge I couldn't ignore. I removed my headphones and stood, drawn to the window. The rain had softened to a gentle drizzle.

That Sunday, I witnessed the most unforgettable sunset. The gradient in the sky was softer than any existing watercolor paintings. The red and gold rays of the sun reflected upon the yet-to-be-evaporated rain, the sky was excessively blue from the humidity, and a huge rainbow was drawn across the sky—so big that I had to physically draw my head around the sky to fully trace the seven colors.

Now here’s my answer to the question:

When you are so low in life, you can only go up.

The sunset I saw that Sunday represents hope and resilience amidst the darkness. In this sunset, I found a glimmer of clarity and beauty—something that prompted me to break through the emotional storm. No matter how dark where I am, eventually light will come in, brightening up the room, and possibly, me too. Regardless of how imperfect it was, I choose to hold onto this memory, hoping that it would serve as the light guiding through the fragile ice.

Each day, I wake before sunrise and sleep after sunset. As I observe the sun's steady rise and fall, I feel the echoes of my own ups and downs. I observe the steady rhythm of light and dark, embracing my own imperfections in this daily ritual of self-acceptance and growth. Rather than letting memories slip away, I’m learning to hold onto the light they bring, even in the grim shadows.

I’m an imperfect perfectionist in the sequence of sun; I fall, stall, and rise. Yet, a part of me awaits the sunray I glimpsed on August 4th, 2024, at 7:49 pm on the Boston streets—the imperfect ray that broke through the storm, promising light even in the darkest of moments.

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Posting only because I won't be sending these off to colleges.

13/100 days