"I think, I wish, I feel, I want."

I was intrigued. My mind rummaged through memory and desire for a sufficient response. Minutes earlier, in an elective entitled "Truth" at Northwestern University's summer acting program, our instructor had outlined the day's exercise:

"One by one, ground yourself in the chair while maintaining eye contact with everyone in the room. In just thirty seconds, if you so please, finish the phrases 'I think, I wish, I feel, I want.' And please, give yourselves to each other."

His shuffling feet on the marbled carpet was loud compared to the silence that followed. The ten of us waited for the first volunteer. After I had worked out some semblance of a response, I slowly stood. I was ready. A quick breath, then six unassuming strides led me to the chair. I sat, inhaled, and lifted my anxious regard to meet the unswerving gaze of the ten people sitting across from me. My exhale shuddered — shattered by the intensity of their eye contact.

The words that were about to escape, the answer I had prepared, was quickly and involuntarily reduced to minimal importance. I was transfixed. Contrary to what I had expected, my eyes were met with eyes; they were not disinterested, they weren't distracted by the world around me, and they did not snicker in conceit. For thirty seconds, I was pulled into eyes that willed me to be, eyes that cared to hear what I had to say, and eyes that locked me into vulnerable connection. And I had no desire to break it.

I left class that day aware that something had changed, but holding mere outlines of whatever it was. Four months passed. I spent every day searching for ways life might color it in.

I started to observe human interaction — including and especially my own. By convention, I noted, a majority of people simply avoid eye contact as much as possible. The slight, occasional glance is often the only connection permitted in conversation. As if everyone is trying to hide behind masks of synthetic perfection. Cognizant that their eyes hold truth, they're afraid of eye contact's silent dialogue — the one that dissolves their ability to manage how others might perceive them.

In avoiding eye contact, people revealed their fear of being seen.

I was dejected. In finding my own truth, I noticed a world around me attempting to disguise their own. Fleeting eyes were a convention, I accepted that, but I didn't understand why. Why do we fear being seen? Why do we fear who we are? Do we fear what we'll become? Has morphing into others become the solution? Why? No answers.

Convention is only convention with participation. So I choose not to participate. Instead, I look people in the eyes.

College admissions essay, age 17