His Nightmares

He sat at his desk and watched the setting sun turn the grass from green to orange yellow to evening shadow. Motionless seconds turned to hours to days all lost in his thoughtfulness. He sits at his desk in such darkness that he can longer see or write on the papers in front of him or even keep his eyes open. Only the piles of paper keep his head up.

In his eyes, fires burn. Blue, the hottest of all flames, flows outward. He is himself the source of the burn, the arsonist, but he cannot douse or fight fire. So, it slowly consumes the house, his wife of smiling white teeth and black skin, his daughters of no significant age, and himself. Before long, nothing is left except a pile of green now worth nothing.

After Taking the MCAT

I will never hold the surgeon's knife,
Because I did not find the kidneys on the abdominal wall.
I will never prescribe drugs for anyone,
Because I did not hydrolyze amines to carboxylic acids.
I will never be a doctor.

Dissection (I)

Her first cut is not sharp though penetrating; skin is soft and so easily sliced away from the tiny tendrils that tighten its embrace. She wields the blade with a quivering touch, carving cadaver into skin and flesh so cleanly as if they never were one tissue, one body, one person. Her knife stops once the pinkish outer layer is removed, and a yellow sheath lined through by blue and red vasculature is left. She looks at him, her handiwork. She can no longer recognize him or hate him for who he was.

Leaving Home

He hears little except the light chirping of the birds, the dulled protest of cicadas, and the awakening of the grass as the sun rises. Opening the door with an experienced grasp of hand, he steps from the emptiness of his room to the quiet space of the home. No one is awake yet. He grabs his backpack, not much to take, and walks towards the back door.

Outside, he squints in the brightness; maybe it will be a hot day here, and his father surprises him once again. The man is standing there, a straight back and neck. As his father turns around, their eyes align. No words are spoken. The man removes a large gold ring with a black stone in the center and hands it to him; as he wears it, he notices that it is heavier than it looks with edges smoothed by the touch of time. He reaches forwards and hugs his father and listens to the man's heart.

After a few moments, he walks away. But then he stops after a few breaths to turn back and look at the man he might one day become. He hears no breaths.

Writing About the Self

I have always hated writing about myself which is different than writing about my experiences. When I write about my experiences, I am trying to capture moments as I saw them, as I hope you will see them. When I write about myself, I am trying to portray myself as I hope you will see me but not necessarily writing about myself as I truly might be.
And perhaps, the former task of a limited personal statement is far easier than that of a true personal statement, but for once, I am publishing a personal essay, my MD/PhD application essay. Not because I am truly proud of it, but because I really have nothing to hide from anyone.