Wait a second!
More handpicked essays just for you.
More handpicked essays just for you.
Don’t take our word for it - see why 10 million students trust us with their essay needs.
Recommended: Overcome adversity
The frigid wind blowing around my hands and face was overwhelmingly cold. Needle-like crystals of ice dug their way into every infinitesimal gap of my thin fleece jacket and froze to my chest. Feeling in my ears and feet had ceased a long time ago. A dull ache had settled in my extremities instead. At first, the numbness had been a welcomed relief, but now I longed for the use of my hands as I struggled to open the gate I had spent hours searching for. Warm light glowed from the windows of a friendly house just a few hundred feet beyond it, though I couldn’t see it through the snow. My useless fingers pushed and scraped against the latch again and again, but the unyielding steel had been immobilized by layers of ice. Beneath me, my legs crumpled in exhaustion and defeat. I leaned against the fence and let the unrelenting snow begin to bury me.
It felt as though I had been wandering around this frozen purgatory forever. The kiss of the summer sun on my face and the joy in my mother’s smile were just brief flickers of memories, quickly extinguished by the endless expanse of s...
The freezing wind had chilled my hand to the bone. Even as I walked into my cabin, I shivered as if there was an invisible man shaking me. My ears, fingers, toes, and noes had turned into a pale purple, only starting to change color once I had made a fire and bundled myself in blankets like ancient Egyptians would do to their deceased Pharaohs. The once powdered snow on my head had solidified into a thin layer of ice. I changed out of the soaking wet clothes I was wearing and put on new dry ones. With each layer I became more excited to go out and start snowboarding. I headed for the lift with my board and my hand. Each step was a struggle with the thick suit of snow gear I was armored in.
'For all the smoldering emotions of that summer swelled up in me and burst-the great need for my mother who was never there, the hopelessness of our poverty and degradation, the bewilderment of being neither child nor woman and both at once, the fear unleashed by my father's tears.'
The cold chill was blazing on me and my shoe gently began to pull out a tear. I thought about Candy and the other guys. Hopefully, I made the right choice. The sun came down and I ended up in a deserted river. Slowly, I began to regain where I was, and I opened my eyes in disbelief.
My mind started to wonder though each room of the house, the kitchen where mom used to spend every waking hour in. The music room where dad maintained the instrument so carefully like one day people would come and play them, but that day never came, the house was always painfully empty. The house never quite lived to be the house my parents wanted, dust bunnies always danced across the floor, shelves were always slightly crooked even when you fixed them. My parents were from high class families that always had some party to host. Their children were disappointments, for we
"Fighting for Our Lives" offers great insight into the current state of public dialogue. Deborah Tannen describes how our public interactions have increasingly become "warlike", in the way we discuss ideas, the way we cover the news, and the way we settle disputes. She observes that an adversarial approach has become the standard as much in public dialogue as it has in "just about anything we need to accomplish". Although she concedes that "conflict and opposition are as necessary as cooperation and agreement", she believes that the balance has been tipped in recent years. An "argument culture" has pervaded American culture, and the consequences are real.
I walked into the room on New Year’s Day and felt a sudden twinge of fear. My eyes already hurt from the tears I had shed and those tears would not stop even then the last viewing before we had to leave. She lay quietly on the bed with her face as void of emotion as a sheet of paper without the writing. Slowly, I approached the cold lifeless form that was once my mother and gave her a goodbye kiss.
Mahatma Gandhi and Thomas Aquinas were two of the most influential philosophers of their respective times. Aquinas’s theological ideas on politics, ethics, and natural law have influenced have been a great influence western civilization and he is also held in high regard within the Catholic faith tradition, being honored as a saint. Gandhi was an influential leader in the movement for India’s freedom from British rule. He preached a philosophy of nonviolent civil disobedience and is held as the inspiration for civil rights leaders and non-violent activists around the world. Both philosophers sought to instruct others on how to live a virtuous life and help contribute towards the common good of all people. However, Aquinas and Gandhi hold different views on how their shared goal is to be met. When comparing the two philosophies, one finds that Thomas Aquinas’s philosophy of natural law is superior to Gandhi’s philosophy of Satyagraha since it allows individuals and countries a way to justifiably defend themselves against those who wish to do them harm.
As I walked through the door of the funeral home, the floral arrangements blurred into a sea of vivid colors. Wiping away my tears, I headed over to the collage of photographs of my grandfather. His smile seemed to transcend the image on the pictures, and for a moment, I could almost hear his laughter and see his eyes dancing as they tended to do when he told one of his famous jokes. My eyes scanned the old photographs, searching for myself amidst the images. They came to rest on a photo of Grandpa holding me in his lap when I was probably no more than four years old. The flowers surrounding me once again blended into an array of hues as I let my mind wander……
I sat back and let the sun bathe me in its bright, reminiscent light. The atmosphere around me was quiet, but just a few feet away people were mourning a great life. It was a life that some say was “lived to the longest and the fullest.” I ,on the other hand, held a solid disagreement. The “longest” couldn’t yet be over, could it? Seventy-five just seemed too short when I had only shared thirteen years with this fabulously, wonderful woman.
I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day; arriving at the summit of the Blackcomb Mountain, nestled in the heart of Whistler, Canada. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the moist, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white flakes overtook the mountain. As I prepared myself to make the first run, I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my nose and froze my toes. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It is strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really did not appear that high anymore. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier looked like dollhouses a child migh...
A shrill cry echoed in the mist. I ducked, looking for a sign of movement. The heavy fog and cold storm provided nothing but a blanket, smothering all sight and creating a humid atmosphere. The freezing air continued to whip at my face, relentless and powerful. Our boat, stuck in the boggy water. Again a cry called. Somewhere out there was someone, or something.
I cried as we locked up the house for the last time. I felt like we had just spackled, primed, and painted over my childhood. I felt as if my identity had been erased, and like the character in the song, I had lost myself. There was no longer any physical evidence that I had ever lived in, much less grew up in, the house.
Standing on the balcony, I gazed at the darkened and starry sky above. Silence surrounded me as I took a glimpse at the deserted park before me. Memories bombarded my mind. As a young girl, the park was my favourite place to go. One cold winter’s night just like tonight as I looked upon the dark sky, I had decided to go for a walk. Wrapped up in my elegant scarlet red winter coat with gleaming black buttons descending down the front keeping away the winter chill. Wearing thick leggings as black as coal, leather boots lined with fur which kept my feet cozy.
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
A blast of adrenaline charges throughout my body as I experience the initial drop. My body's weight shifts mechanically, cutting the snow in a practiced rhythm. The trail curves abruptly and I advance toward a shaded region of the mountain. Suddenly, my legs chatter violently, scraping against the concealed ice patches that pepper the trail. After overcompensating from a nearly disastrous slip, balance fails and my knees buckle helplessly. In a storm of powder snow and ski equipment, body parts collide with nature. My left hand plows forcefully into ice, cracking painfully at the wrist. For an eternity of 30 seconds, my body somersaults downward, moguls of ice toy with my head and further agonize my broken wrist. Ultimately veering into underbrush and pine trees, my cheeks burn, my broken wrist surging with pain. Standing up confused, I attempt climbing the mountain but lose another 20 feet to the force of gravity.