house on mango street
They say time does not last, but a memory will. Unfortunately, a memory does not always serve the positive requirements that we burden upon it. My memories serve only to haunt me of who I once was, and who I never will be. Home videos are the only trace left of the happy extrovert I once had known myself to be. In particular, one can see a skinny, blond-haired child dancing on the streets of Disney World and striking poses, like a runway model, for the passing strangers. I wanted to be noticed, for everyone to look at me, as I smiled and leaped off and on the curb of the sidewalk. Those days did not last. When did I change? That question can never be answered. It has been so long since I have been able to remember being that happy child. Somewhere in middle school, a new identity arose within me. I became fragile to other people's words. I was constantly on guard against the limitations and criticisms from people I once considered to be my friends. They were a horrible group of friends; the type that could condemn you for life just for wearing generic brand shirt, and not Gap. Each morning I would wake up with the prospect of a new opportunity for happiness among my friends. Each day my hopes were shattered as I walked into the
aster I called my mind. I pressed lightly at first, careful how I wrote each letter. Eventually my emotions took over my fingers and my letters became thick and hard. Hurt. Pain. Suffering. Torture. Empty. Depressed. Miserable. Nothingness. My handwriting was barely legible but the words kept on pouring out. There was a tidal wave of thoughts stuck on this paper. By the time I was finished the book, a stir of questions twirled through my mind like a cloud of dust picked up by a high wind. I wondered what my purpose in life was? Why did I endure so much pain? Why couldn't I just be happy? The thoughts began to sensor my sense of reality and I could no longer focus on anything. It could have been a compilation of my past experiences or maybe a trace from my mother's side of the family, but I soon went into a state of solitude and depression. Regardless, the dismal feelings that generated inside me and the empty thoughts that festered in my mind ate away at my existence. I was slowly disappearing within myself and I felt as though there was nothing pulling me back. I felt utterly alone. My whole life I devoted myself to others just to be let down. Now, there was no one left to turn to. It seemed like there really was not a purpose for me to live for all I ever endured was pain and suffering. I wanted to talk to people, anyone, about it, but no one was interested in hearing my problems. I certainly did not have friends I could open up to because they were all too preoccupied with their pathetic problems, like which boy to date. And I certainly could not turn to my parents because at that point in my life, like every teenager, I was revolting against t! p of people I associated with that I lost my sense of self, my independence, and my childhood. The one piece of literature in particular that changed my life immensely is House on Mango Street, by Sandra Cisneros. Through small vignettes, she poetically narrates the hardships a young girl, by the name of Esperanza, endures growin
Some common words found in the essay are:
Disney World, Sandra Cisneros, Miserable Nothingness, , paper ghost ache, ghost ache write, sets free, paper ghost, ghost ache, pain suffering, ache write, goodbye sometimes,
Approximate Word count = 1347
Approximate Pages = 5 (250 words per page double spaced)
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