Who can describe the movement of a pen as it flows across a page, forming an endless summation of shapes, bearing myriads of riddles in its creation? Words have always held a certain fascination for me, a kind of magic I am unable to resist. To write is to express oneself. Pen and paper do not judge; they have no preconceived notions about who you are or who you might become. They know only truth. Ink cannot lie. Deception comes only from the one who wields the pen, who shapes the words, and from the one who allows himself to be deceived, who can think not of his own accord.

This is the beauty of language. Not only to speak a language, but to understand it, to feel its heartbeat, to know its rhythm—then may one serve as a true master, a master of communication. Communication holds a society together, as it has since the beginning of mankind’s existence. I appreciate this power, along with the importance of speech, and of literacy, in the modern world. Words used effectively can manipulate, persuade, ease, irritate, or function however the composer intends. I wish to be such a composer. With the appropriate eloquence, one person can sway the opinions of an audience or open the eyes of the world to some guarded truth. Yet within such potent writing resides a veiled kind of power. Many do not acknowledge its full value, or are not even aware of its capabilities. Underestimation is dangerous. Underestimation can lead to destruction. I know this, though I do not claim to have perfected the essential skills required to craft extraordinary works of art using only words. For this, I am going to college. During my time there and forever afterwards I will be on the constant lookout for the perfect expression, the perfect phrase to put into effect. Perhaps then may I have the power to influence the world.