I only have one goal in life: to live successfully. Success, by definition, is the accomplishment of an aim or purpose. My aim and my purpose is to die one day knowing that I have lived every day of my life, and made the most of every opportunity and blessing I am given. My greatest fear is to die ashamed of a wasted life. My parents immigrated from South Africa to America in 2003. By their sacrifices, I have been given the gift of a future in the greatest country in the world. A future of safety, and freedom, and college. I am now enrolled in an academically rigourous college that embodies the vision my parents had for me and my siblings. The academic tuition at this college is $30,000 per year. This investement in my education and future is funded by scholarships like yours, and my own blood, sweat, and tears. I care about the cost and I’m scared about how I’ll be able to make ends meet, but I’m also incredibly grateful for the opportunity to study the hows and whys of the world, struggle through twelve page papers, and rub shoulders with likeminded peers. College is painful, but it’s one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever been given. I know I said my only goal is to live successfully, but underneath that there is a subtitle; I want to come to terms with who and what I am. My parents immigrated from South Africa to America in 2003. I've grown up attempting to balance both worlds, and at times it can be very confusing. On the 4th of July I laugh and cry from a heart overflowing with patriotism and happiness to be in the land of the American Dream; on other days, I cry from homesickness for a place I've never lived in more than two months. And then I feel guilty for thinking I can even really call myself a South African. I love America, and I love South Africa. But who am I? I am a citizen of the United States of America, a child of South Africa, and a daughter of Heaven. I think the greatest challenge we all face, is the challenge of life. We all decide how we write our own stories, and how our stories touch those around us, and right is not always easy, and wrong is not always hard. I wish I could speak to you face to face. I wish I could tell you my story and hear why John J. Costonis was such a special man. But I do know he must have lived a successful life, just like my parents; the kind of life I am aiming to live.

It was the words that first drew me. Sometimes I wonder why I'm made like I am, and that little thought opens the flood gates of skepticism and self-deprecation, but the words! I tear pages out of notebooks and write it all out in black and white so I can understand the confusion of thoughts and emotions inside me. That first night I settled on this desperate measure, I sat in silence afterwards, trying to wrap my mind around the magic of words. Little marks on paper, pixels on a screen, sounds passed on silently from flat surface to flat surface; magic. Let me illustrate my point. I, the writer of this sentence, and you, the reader of it, are meeting together at this exact word - we are together in this moment. Time is absolutely irrelevant and locational differences certainly haven't affected a thing. I cannot see you, you cannot see me, but for now, we're traveling down this screen together. I hope you don't mind. Whoever said humans are mortal was a downright liar. If you have the guts, you can transfer little bits of your soul onto paper, and poof - the magic is at work. Then you ball that paper up and throw it into the world's Water Hole of Ideas, Knowledge, and the Bottomless Collection of Thoughts and Feelings of Mankind in General. If you throw it hard enough, sometimes it can make quite the splash. I think now's the time to mention a clause in the Terms and Conditions of Writing few writers seem to have heard of: "You agree to being aware of the fact that every word you write and make available to the access of Mankind in General has an effect on every reader, and you take full responsibility of this effect and its possible effects. (Section 182 B.)". Let me suggest something radical: why not write our little bits of souls into something beautiful and grand, like a flood. There are many ugly, festering edges in that Water Hole. In fact, there's a swamp located somewhere in the very middle. It poisons some of us who go down to revive ourselves with words. Why not wash these away with good words - overflow the boundaries or at least bury the filth? Let me suggest something even more radical: the previous suggestion was not radical at all. Basic human dignity depends on the existence of brotherly love. If you are not even willing to pour a cup of pure, clean, freshwater words for a stranger, the world will turn into a desert. But now I, the writer of this sentence, must fondly say goodbye to you, the reader of these words. We've magicked our way through several paragraphs, and here I will leave you with a farewell cup of good strong words brewed up by Ursula K. Le Guin: “A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper.” We can use our magic to lighten the world's dark places. Will you?

There's an amateur watercolor hanging over the head of my bed. It leans a little towards the window on its right, and dust lies scattered on the thin, wooden frame. It's not much of testament to genius or creativity, but it captures certain memories and emotions from a long-gone past. It's my little window onto a world I once knew. My grandparents lived in a small seaside town in Hermanus, South Africa. We would fly the 18 hours from Washington DC back home to South Africa every February, and we would live under the shadow of a Mountain for two weeks. That Mountain. I love it more than any other mountain in the world. I remember watching sunsets by the sea cliffs; feeling the salt spray sprinkle on my skin, feeling the wind wrap me round and round with the feeling of homecoming, watching the golden lights flow over the clouds onto the Mountain, wrapping the world in peace and glorious beauty. I would give so much just to go back to that moment; to see the watercolor painting as it once was - reality. But now it's just a dream, and I cry to think of it. Dust lies scattered on the thin, wooden frame. Time. Why can't I turn back the clock and see my Mountain again face-to-face? It's strange, these things called memories. You think of something that happened yesterday and it's as if the thing replays in your mind. My memory of the Mountain is more than that. It lives in me. It's shadow is tucked away in a little corner of my heart, it's image reflected on the wall.