<p>If you applied ED, post your essay here if you want …</p>
<p>Crowds swarmed the lavish works that characterize the beauty of Pompeii. Fatigued from travel, I detoured to catch some respite in the shade alone. The alleviation of my eyes allowed the discovery of a mosaic that everyone else had ignored. I possess no knowledge of title, or even artist, but the complex patterns delicacy took me to a world that my heart will always yearn for. Beauty screamed silently from each tile of the artistry as the thought of a listless white chamber slipped into my focus. This room superficially appears as ordinary and dull as a tenement can be. It is home, though, to a live work of art left untold.</p>
<p>Inside are the labyrinths of an inexplicable relationship among co-workers that is maintained every day inside the local Acme supermarket where Ive spent much of two fragile years chopping produce. Elementary, it may seem, to triumph the wonders of a seemingly average part-time job. However, I feel that Ive accelerated my maturity in the hands of the fourteen entities I work with. The variance in goals, ages, personas, beliefs, and attitudes present has granted me the fortunate discipline of challenging and questioning the ignored. My mind smiles at the bond shared between a drug trafficker and a previously naïve girl who never dreamed of having so much in common. </p>
<p>Also forever standing, my home there always proves itself loyal as the stage to the theater of my mind. On it the characters shine; I just cant decide who has shaped me the most; is it the sarcastically brilliant Cheryl, the awkwardly quiet Jason, or the constantly-rapping LaTanya? Something tells me it doesnt really matter. On this never-ending production, I see myself creeping in the shadows of influence that each person leaves behind. With times passing, Ive marked my personal growth in the many observations Ive secretly taken. My outwardly bold personality silently leaves space for growing and understanding all the gifts of diversity Ive been given.</p>
<p>I always wonder if this dreamland that Ive built in my mind is a solitary place. When the friends that I now consider family punch the clock to go home, do they ponder to the lengths I do? Through our days together weve seen successes, marriages, family problems, harsh breakups, college acceptances, failures, lost loved ones, self-realizations, and dozens of their accompanying emotions. We may have separate lives, but have experienced our tribulations together. Ive concluded that this type of unparalleled relationship was simply taken for granted.</p>
<p>The intricacy of the beautiful work of ancient history at my fingertips in Europe proves that my logic needs no revamping. Like the neglected mosaic, the dignified pieces of Acme are only given justice by a watchful eye. The tale of the assimilated craftsmanship inside a grocery store weeps with the ancient Pompeian mosaic; many unknowingly flock to ostensible beauty, leaving true art undiscovered. And while many may overlook them, a beautiful synergy lies beneath the surface that is protruded by a change in value.</p>
<p>wow! that is really good. I wish that i had a more interesting one.</p>
<p>What was yours about? I am always curious to see what people have to say in their essay.</p>
<p>Mine was so cliche … about the death of a family member</p>
<p>Topics like that may sound cliche, but are often the most personal of essays. I’m sure you did a great job.</p>
<p>Mine integrated the ideas of being biracial and volunteering in a third world country. I’ve been told by my english teachers and counselor that it was a strong essay…however I’m sure the topic is very cliche (race and volunteering)</p>
<p>i wrote about how i liked my grandpa</p>
<p>I really don’t think there is such a thing as a non-cliche college essay. No matter what you try, it has most likely been done before.</p>
<p>i wrote about fried chicken…im sure that’s not cliche :)</p>
<p>I read some of the essay and it is good, but I don’t like all those long words of latin orgin, however that is only my (nonprofessional, high school student) opinion. Somehow, I don’t think fried chicken is cliche either. I wrote about my summer job and a crisis involving the death of a research cow.</p>
<p>I’ll post mine if a few more people post theirs.</p>
<p>i found the first essay bombastic and hard to comprehend at first reading, yet im tired so maybe thats why lol</p>
<p>Oh why thank you.</p>
<p>“I am well aware that you, as an NYU admissions officer, expect me to write a full essay about how I have sustained several changes throughout my life. But this is why I refuse to do so. Life is about spontaneity, not expectations.”</p>
<p>That’s my essay… I actually found myself with several extra characters, believe it or not.</p>
<p>Oh… and don’t think about stealing it :)</p>
<p>It was in Manchuria, the far northeastern territory of China bordering North Korea, a land whose fertility has driven jealous neighboring nations into endless years of conflicts. The young man waited in the unusually chilly summer sun, a cool breeze sweeping the back of his neck, prickling each hair on his skin. He wasnt sure if it was cold or nerves that left his body nervously tingling, sensitive to the summer air. He sat painstakingly still, frightened as a helpless boy, encouraged only by the complex dreams of a man. He wished for simple things. He hoped his knees wouldnt buckle on the short walk to the train. He prayed he and his knapsack could disappear into the bustling chaos of the railway cars, just long enough to carry him far enough away from the border so that he could disappear forever from his past. He was by himself, chasing after freedom, sacrificing every memory, every taste of familiarity he had ever known. Chul-Su Kim was a North Korean refugee in China, and he was leaving home, forever. We were all sheltered inside the stuffy van that belonged to one of our volunteers. The sun streaming in the hazy windows offered us a gauzy blanket against the chill outside. We sat silent for what seemed like hours, tracing every shoelace, every seam on the seats in front of us, every mundane crevice and corner, with bored but restless eyes. It seemed to take an eternity for the right time to come. Mr. Kim seemed unusually calm, almost detached. He was determined to go with the plan. Looking back I can see that if he had been thinking with his heart, he may never have left that van. He must have been terrified, no matter how much his blank gaze belied it. </p>
<p>Silence dominated for some time, tightening its grip on all of us. For the first time in hours, Mr. Kims jaw clenched and he hesitantly opened his mouth to speak. In the same instant, Mr. Xian, one of our very few Chinese volunteers, gave us the sign. I could hear my own heart beating in my ears. My body was cold and tingling, but wet with sweat. Mr. Kim was without expression. I will never know what he was thinking at that moment. After a few minutes, Mr. Kim crawled out of the van without a word, closing the door casually behind him. He walked straight into the station, as though it was the most routine of chores.</p>
<p>His disheveled jet-black hair shone in the early morning sun, and his gaze shifted downwards to his feet, an impulse not to be seen. He noticed, and looked up, feigning confidence. His arms crossed around his chest rubbing his two palms against his two boney arms as he often did; I dont know if he was cold or just at a loss for how to stand, walk and hold himself unassumingly. His beloved brown backpack, so weathered and withered it dragged on the ground, and his wiry frame seemed lost in a baggy grey jumper. </p>
<p>He told us once that he would die before being deported back to his native North Korea. I dont know if I ever really believed him. I should have. The tortures and humiliations he had endured under their archaic Communist regime were unimaginable. If he went back, he told us, more torture was inevitable, as was execution, which wouldnt come quickly enough. He meant it. An inconceivably horrible life had made him a pragmatist.</p>
<p>Less than twenty minutes after he entered the station, he was arrested inside a train to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia where we were going to meet him. I will never know how they found him, or how they knew. I will never know how he felt once he realized his dream of disappearing would never happen. What I do know is that he kept his promise. Right after he was arrested, he managed to escape and stuffed himself with pills. We were waiting outside to see if he had made it or not. Once we heard the siren, our hearts broke in to pieces.</p>
<p>After a few intense minutes with Chinese police yelling and pushing people aside, I saw him, slowly being dragged outside by two Chinese police officers badly disguised as civilians. His face was as gray and lifeless as his stretched out jumper, to which the police now clung as they yanked his dead body out of the station. No matter how often we had prepared ourselves for the worst, this ending was shocking, and I felt the bile of revulsion rise in my throat. I was only fifteen. Mr. Kim was hardly older than I, and there he lay a dozen yards away, his life needlessly wasted. I wondered if the police felt relieved, and my shock began to dissolve into anger. </p>
<p>Mr. Kim had died alone on a nameless street, at a crowded station, a world away from the family and friends who had always known him. I wondered how many people disappeared this way. I wondered if Mr. Kim imagined himself dying on a cold summer day in the Northeast, surrounded only by apathetic police, in midst of another daily routine of stifling injustice. I realized that no matter how much he meant to me, he was just one of the 100,000 North Korean refugees who died on their way to freedom, unnoticed. </p>
<p>In the past few years, I stumbled, almost accidentally upon the volunteers group by way of the Hana-Duri Church in South Korea and a Japanese NGO. Both organizations identities are kept strictly confidential for security purposes. Experiences like the day with Mr. Kim have shaped and motivated me irreversibly. I have tried to dedicate my lifes efforts to helping the invisible people. New York is thousands of miles from Manchuria, but sadly filled with an infinite number of people who simply slip out of view to the margins of society. Here I feel I can make a difference by developing a career as a social worker. Thankless and uncompensated as the work is, it is a profession filled with people who are amongst the few truly selfless people in the world. I feel I am already one of them. </p>
<p>I am certain that I will never accept the death of Mr. Kim, nor will I ever honestly be able to digest the reasons that he had to die. I have dealt with my grief in many ways. Soon after his death, I founded an online bulletin board called the Pathfinders, on which I counsel mostly teenage North Korean refugees who successfully escaped to South Korea but continue to face discrimination in their schools. I have also counseled in China, Mongolia, and South Korea with secular organizations from South Korea, Japan, and even Germany, despite constant threats from Chinese government. China is deeply concerned that increased public awareness of the tragic plights of North Korean refugees may tarnish their image as host country of the 2008 Olympic Games. It would also force them to address the effect of their own policies on the continuing violation of human rights and civil liberties. </p>
<p>It is certainly cliché to say that the world is a cruel, scary place. It is true that the enfranchisement of all people begins with the empowerment of the most powerless. I believe that change begins with truth, and with educating people as to the unthinkable horrors happening to many of the worlds citizens every second of the day. Almost nothing is worse than inaction. If we do not recognize the problems existing in this world, people will continue to suffer unnecessarily. I realize that I cannot alone reverse all the ills of mankind, but I feel strongly that the worst sin of all would be not to try.</p>
<p>That is one loonnnnnnnngggggg essay…</p>
<p>Isn’t that way over the word count?
It could have been a lot more powerful if it was shorter. It was pretty good though</p>
<p>that is the original version. 
i have the shortened one which i submitted to NYU but I am not going to post it here.:)</p>
<p>do not copy my essay. it’s copy righted. seriously</p>