Thoughts on Adulthood | College Application Essay

Thoughts on Adulthood

I.

Homesickness slides down my throat and settles in my stomach, a heavy weight that keeps me rooted to the unfamiliar bed. The sounds of a stranger’s breaths waft across the room and fill my ears, too loud in the dark night. I want to leave. I want to go home to my own house and my own bed and my own sister across the room. I don’t want to be in this dormitory with the lumpy mattress and the musty smell and the roommate.

II.

My fingers ache from writing, but I don’t dare lift my pen from the page. I continue to scrawl my thoughts and musings and words, praying that something decent will come from them.

III.

Fear greets me at the door to the dining hall, smirking at me as I hover uncertainly, clutching a tray lined with food I am too nervous to eat. The camera zooms out and pans across the room full of laughing groups I wish I were a part of. Like a bad teen movie, I cannot figure out where I belong.

IV.

My classmates are far more talented than I will ever be, and I can’t help but resent them. They create beauty out of thin air in mere minutes, while I struggle to organize my thoughts into sentences.

V.

Exhaustion seeps into my bones and presses on my eyelids, but I do not succumb. I’ve realized that there are too many stories to tell and games to play and poems to write. I have learned to fight through the fatigue and keep moving. I walk and I laugh and I write and I read and I discuss and I learn and I eat and I sleep and I do it all over again day after day.

VI.

My mother calls, and I dash for the stairwell, settling into the quiet place to talk to her. I barely register the concern in her voice, my mind too busy running over tomorrow’s schedule to hear about how empty the house feels without me. I’m caught up in my new life away from home, and I no longer miss my family or my bedroom or my hometown.

VII.

Hope fills my lungs and explodes out of my body with every breathe I release. I start to believe that I do belong here. I thought I was alone that first night, but when I look at the crowd of laughing people gathered around the table, I realize that I’m surrounded by friends.

VIII.

I have conquered the laundry room and the dining hall and life with a roommate. These things seemed terrifying and insurmountable to me on that first day, but now they come naturally. In fourteen days, I have embraced freedom, welcomed independence, and even made a few deals with responsibility.

IX.

Misery wraps around me, choking me, as my friends drag their suitcases bursting with notebooks and memories down the hall. Soon enough, I’ll have to get in a car that will take me eight hours away to the place I have always considered home. I will return to my regularly scheduled life of high school and siblings and childhood, but I will miss my time spent on Kenyon’s campus.

X.

My suitcase sits in the middle of my bedroom, and I reluctantly pull the zipper and unload the contents. With each notebook I remove, each crumpled t-shirt I yank out, my freedom and independence slip away a little more. I could tighten my grip and hold them to me with all my strength, but instead I choose to let them go. They put in a lot of time these past two weeks, and they deserve a break. I’ll give them some time to relax and recharge, but I know they’ll be back soon enough.

*****

This is the essay I submitted to all of the colleges I applied to through the Common Application. The prompt was to describe my transition from childhood to adulthood. I was accepted into nine out of twelve schools, though I'm not sure if it was because of this essay or in spite of it. Either way, I have made my decision and chosen a school with a fantastic Creative Writing program, so I'll be headed off to college in the fall!

Entropy

Entropy

When my Physics teacher explained the world “entropy” to me,

The details about energy and thermodynamics bounced off the soft matter of my mind;

Only the concept of chaos slipped through my pores and made a home inside me.

“The universe favors chaos,” my teacher said.

A simple fact, a scientific law.

Or so he thought.

He did not know that he was unraveling the thin thread that held my world together.

If the universe prefers chaos over calm,

Disorder over organization,

Anarchy over harmony,

Then all our hope and optimism,

All our bravery and generosity,

Is implausible, illogical, impossible.

This universe—our universe,

The only one we've got—

Has no aspirations of bigger or greater things.

This universe wants to pick us up like we are pawns in a cruel, twisted game.

It wants to watch us burn or drown or battle one another for eternity.

This universe does not favor progress or unity,

And so it has set us all—

Each and every one of us tiny, insignificant beings—

On a path that ends in failure.

The universe plots wars and plans diseases,

All so it can look down upon us

And flash a demented grin at the chaos it has created.

But.

But, even though all the evidence tells us that the universe favors chaos,

We—we small, meaningless humans—fight nature.

We aspire and inspire,

We dream and desire,

We hope, and we love,

And we clean the mess the universe leaves us.

We may let chaos step on our toes,

Or push us back a few steps,

Or barricade us in boxes.

We may, on occasion, let it gain the upper hand

Or sabotage our plans for progress.

But we do not let it control us,

Or consume us, or defeat us.

The universe may favor chaos,

But we will never let it destroy us.

*****

I realize that the last poem I posted here was also about chaos, but I think I took each poem in a very different direction, so it's cool, right? :)
Also, this is another piece inspired by physics class! I'm not sure why I keep writing about physics, but perhaps I should start paying more attention in class instead of writing.

Rachel Pietrewicz | A Spoken Poem

I decided to start sharing my writing in videos on my YouTube channel, so this is my first adventure into the world of spoken poetry!

The written version of this poem can be found here on this blog.

Rachel Pietrewicz

Rachel Pietrewicz

On the first day of my last year of high school,

my Physics teacher takes attendance.

Eighth block,

eighth time listening to a teacher stumble

and stutter when their eyes land on my name

and their mouth tries to shape the letters into words.

I sigh quietly and brace myself for that one moment

that comes at the beginning of every class.

When my Physics teacher's voice breaks the smooth stride

of the Smiths and the Johnsons and the Wilsons,

I am ready.

It's “pee-etch-true-wits,” I tell him

before he even gets the first syllable out.

My classmates laugh, as they always do,

Mr. Rogers looks relieved, as teachers always do,

I slide further down in my seat, as I always do.

It's difficult to embrace

and accept

a name that no one can pronounce

or spell

or shorten into a convenient nickname.

I have spent too many hours of my life

repeating the spelling of my name

to teachers and doctors and reporters and bankers.

P as in Paul, I, E.

T as in Tom, R, E.

W, I, C, Z. Charlie, Zebra, yes we have finally reached the end.

“I'll just call you Rachel,”

everyone always says, shifting uncomfortably.

Because the ten letters that make up my surname

are arranged in a combination

that baffles intelligent people

and complicates simple situations.

*****

Yes, this is a poem called Rachel Pietrewicz written by Rachel Pietrewicz. :) I wrote this at the workshop, where everyone was assigned to write a poem with their name as the title. To be honest, I don't usually mind when people mess up my name, but I channeled those occasional moments of annoyance and ended up with this.

I Have Never Been in Love

I Have Never Been in Love

I have never been in love,

But I have watched the sun set over empty fields.

I have seen fireflies illuminate summer nights.

I have watched fresh snow glisten after storms.

I have laughed until my stomach ached and my lungs grasped for air.

I have felt the crowd swell as the lights went down and the curtain pulled back.

I have found comfort in the yellowed pages of old books.

I have felt the satisfaction of creation.

I have never been in love,

But I think that what I have felt

And seen and done

Is close enough.

Inseparable

Inseparable

There once was a boy and girl who lived next door to each other. They spent all their time together pretending and laughing and dancing. All summer long, they would run through their tiny town, leaving a trail of mischief and recklessness behind them. The boy and the girl were inseparable, unstoppable, the dream team, partners in crime, practically siblings, explorers, romantics, dreamers, darers, doers. They were pure hope, never scared or disillusioned but constantly smiling and helping and appreciating. The boy and the girl were king and queen of the town, rulers of the country, leaders of the world, game makers of the universe. They were misfits with ripped jeans and bare feet, ready to dominate and inspire and educate and love and be loved. As long as they had each other, nothing and no one could hurt them or stop them or ruin them.

But then the boy and the girl grew up, as boys and girls always do, and their days of mischief and recklessness became a thing of the past, something easily forgotten and rarely remembered. Growing up brought new people and goals and responsibilities, and there wasn't any time for pretending and laughing and dancing. The boy and the girl were hopeless, burned-out, the lost ones, grown-ups, practically retired, cowards, quitters, fakers, haters, seducers. They were pure regret, never brave or optimistic but constantly scheming and wanting and trying. The boy and the girl were strangers from the same town, separate citizens of the country, individual observers of the world, different pieces of the universe. They were conformists with broken dreams and wrinkles, ready to sabotage and get ahead and judge and hate and be hated. They didn't have each other, so anyone and anything hurt them and stopped them and ruined them.

*****

Fun fact: this is the only piece of writing I've ever read aloud to an audience. It was terrifying (and mandatory :P) but I think it turned out okay. 

Also, I'm not sure what to classify this piece as. I've been calling it prose poetry, but maybe that's inaccurate. Is it flash fiction? I have no idea!

In January

In January

In January,

the world is new.

Confetti and champagne and kisses

mark the natural passing of time,

a rather pointless tradition

if one thinks about it practically,

but January is not about practicality.

January is about symbols and resolutions.

January is hoping, dreaming, praying

to be better, stronger, happier.

January is optimistic.

It is vibrant, fresh, alive.

January is the time to stop and reflect

or rush right ahead into something that shimmers.

It is the time to be thankful that we are still breathing, living, laughing;

because despite everything,

despite November and December,

all those miserable, frigid days,

we have reached the other side.

We may be bruised and battered and broken;

our voices may shake and our hands may tremble,

but we trust that lists scribbled on napkins

and the promise of summer’s return

and the chance to remake ourselves

will save us,

and we are right.

In January,

everything is new,

and we are still breathing.

*****

This is a brand-new piece that I haven't taken the time to tweak/edit/whatever, so I don't think it's a final version, but I'm pleased with what I have so far. I normally don't post anything that I haven't agonized over for awhile, so this is a bit difficult for me, but I hope to do more of this casual write-something-then-post-it-right-away thing in the future. :)

The Truth About Writing

The Truth About Writing

"What inspires you to write?" is a question I get asked too often by friends and neighbors and teachers and relatives. They ask to be polite, to keep a conversation going. They don't actually care about the answer. All they want is a neat little package presented to them with my simple one-word-or-phrase-or-sentence answer. They assume their question is as simple as the obligatory “how are you?”—to which the only acceptable responses are “good,” “fine,” and “great, thanks.”

These people think there is one right answer I can give them, but writing is not math. There are no patterns or reasons or rules. Writing is chaotic, messy, disorganized. It is different for every single person who calls themselves a writer, and no two people will ever be able to answer the question “what inspires you to write?” the same way.

Usually, my response to this question is something polite and predictable like “my life experiences.” I don’t tell them that I’m inspired by the sound of breathing in a quiet room or the promise a sunrise holds or the diatribe spilling from my classmates’ mouths in the hallway. I don’t tell them that music causes my fingers to twitch if they are not wrapped around a pen or that sometimes when I’m driving I create stories in my head about utopias and monsters and the people walking down the sidewalk. I don’t tell them that I can’t imagine my life without words, without the ability to escape into the world of a spiral notebook, without my skin covered in ink that forms random phrases and ideas that I can’t trust my mind to remember on its own.

I could say all of these things, but if I said them, I'd also have to say that I keep a notebook next to my bed because sometimes I wake up at two in the morning when my subconscious mind has something brilliant to share. I’d have to say that I live my life on the sidelines, always observing other people rather than participating myself. I’d have to say that even the most mundane objects—tissue boxes and cotton shirts and shoelaces—have the power to ignite a fire of inspiration in me.

I don't want to tell anyone any of that, because I know they won't listen, or if they do listen, they won't understand. So I keep all of my thoughts on writing to myself, because secrets are fun to keep, and I comfort myself with the knowledge that this secret is mine, mine and no one else's, and it cannot be taken from me.

Maybe the next time someone asks me “what inspires you to write?” I'll just tell them the truth: that it's a secret, that they wouldn't understand, that they don't truly care. Or maybe I’ll answer their question with a question of my own. “What doesn't inspire me?” I’ll respond, and I’ll dare them to come up with an answer.

Lies Your Physics Teacher Told You

Lies Your Physics Teacher Told You

I remember the day you ran up to me in the hallway after Physics and before English. Your face was flushed rose with untold stories bursting at the seams of your chapped lips, and I smiled because I loved it when you talked about the things you were excited about, and I loved you. As we speed-walked to our next classrooms you wrapped an arm around my shoulder and told me about how atoms could never touch each other. Your words leapt out of your mouth and into the air between us, bumping into each other and bonding together, and I marveled at how enthusiastic you seemed about the miracle of humanity and life and existence.       

I don’t remember many of the stories you told me about Physics, but I remember this: you said that the sensation of touch was just a perception, something that only existed in the mind, because atoms never touch but only hover side-by-side. You slid your fingers down my body and squeezed my waist, awestruck at this realization.

At the time, I didn't understand. “But I feel you,” I said, my mind struggling to wrap its wispy fingers around the concept. I put a hand on your chest and said that I was touching you and how did I know? I knew because I could feel you.

But you said no, no, no, it was all a perception, an illusion, nothing was real or solid or tangible and the world was a mess of a place that didn't care about us or anyone at all because the world was too busy being practical for such frivolousness.

A sick feeling spread through my veins but I pushed it away, shoved it back towards the dark corner where it belonged, and I kept asking questions, thinking that if the inquiries stacked up and became a towering pile, it would eventually topple and I would expose the flaws in your logic and prove that this was all nonsense, nothing more than silly theories.

“But if nothing ever touches anything else, how can anything leave a mark?” Your smile twisted into something unkind and your answer was simple: “It can’t.”

And then you kissed me at the door to my History classroom and as I watched you slink across the hall to English I touched my fingers to my lips. The taste of your cinnamon gum lingered there, and if we’d never actually touched, how could such a distinct taste linger on my skin even after you’d gone?

You may think you have science on your side, but I know you’re wrong because when you left I looked down at myself and I saw my clothes and my skin and underneath I saw my bones and you were there; you were everywhere. Your presence covered me like an old t-shirt dotted with holes but more comfortable than anything found in department stores, and you were not nothing, and I was not nothing, and I know that atoms must be capable of touching other atoms because you touched me and you hurt me and you left marks that I will never be able to erase, and maybe I don’t want to erase them because don’t you think they’re a little beautiful?

These marks are evidence of us, evidence of every time your lips pressed into my neck and your hand sweated in mine and your breath tickled my hair when you laughed. These marks are more real than your science will ever be because these marks are the result of loving and losing and loving again, and these marks are the result of living.