For every 2.5 million snowflakes, a mere square inch of ground is covered. Without noticing, we demolish an average of 6 million snowflakes just by treading one step amongst the flat canvas of a winter wonderland. 6 million snowflakes with different edges, patterns, sizes, and stature. It amazes me that out of the trillions amongst trillions of snowflakes that fall on this earth, not a single pattern repeats itself. Every single snow-flake, no matter the minuteness of the detail, is distinct. I hold the same fascination with people.

     Though not as dramatic, I find that a small, thoughtless action can affect the paths and molds of people just as a pair of stilettos crashing on a colony of snow changes the shape of separate snowflakes" either by dismantling them completely, or significantly disfiguring them. As my pen conveys this thought by dancing across the paper, I find myself growing even more amazed at the clear parallelism of my central thesis. Everybody is different, even amongst the billions and billions of people, and the smallest and most accidental things can crush a person into something that was not on the original canvas.

     I remember myself as a four year old girl. I remember dreaming of mystical white curtains doing an elegant tango with the wind and creating a peaceful breeze in my creme-la themed room. I imagined myself with long, charcoal-basked locks waving down my spine, creating a perfect contrast with my tea-dyed vintage Manolo. I would dream of glowing in the moonlight and looking out the window, dazzled by the stars and their intricate placing against the mysterious blue sky, feeling a contented warmth within me. Such dreams tactfully distracted me from what my life really was, and what was becoming my future. In my fantasy, I was an elegant porcelain doll, admired by all who caught sight, glowing from an eternal happiness. In reality, I was a discarded Raggedy-Anne doll, slumped and shoved into a moldy comer, looking up enviously at the porcelain doll and collecting dust.

     However, the physical aspect of my Raggedy-Anne status wasn't what placed a glacier over my soul: as a product of the 20th century, I knew all too well that looks could easily be changed and manipulated through the fascinating world of anesthesiology. What my conscious mind was trying to escape from was my lowly status as a silent victim of child abuse and the wrath of an alcoholic family. Never did I pity myself for such things, for I was always told in the wise words of my grandmother to "fix it or stop crying." I was, however, fixated on the nagging pain ripping my inside to shreds. While my parents were either working out, fighting, drinking, or sleeping, I was smothered by the battlefield which I called home. I was constantly assured by a distant man, whom I assume is my father, that I was a woman and therefore held two purposes (I will leave the two to your imagination). Since this philosophy was reflected in the way he treated my mother, I assumed it to be normal behavior: I was an empty vase to be decorated, emptied, and filled again at convenience by a various array of flowers. Like a puppet, (with the trimmest waist and longest lashes, of course), I was to sit, smile, and nod. It took me years of experience to realize that this was only a requirement amongst women who wanted to make it easier for others to swallow.

     The day I entered kindergarten, the pieces of the puzzle began to break apart, scatter, and merge into a different picture. I remember that day clearly: my mother, (whom was, and always will be, my hero), dressed me up in my brand new corduroy dress from LL bean . . . purple with floral decorations, accompanied by matching tights, black Mary-Jane flats, and a flashy red rain coat. At the time, I didn't understand what the occasion was, or that I was about to grasp a tool that would aid me in building my own bright future. Entering grade school on that day was possibly the worst thing that could have happened to the opposing team or any of its players. My teachers, somewhat bewildered at my wit and intelligence, were constantly ogling and gawking at my early-lived strength and independence. When I realized that I had a brain and acknowledged what could be done with it, I was absolutely and tragically unstoppable. I squashed all academic and extra-curricular requirements and developed a mind that could not be broken.

     To my astonishment, I did not replicate the trillions of smothered snowflakes molded into all of the others, being stripped of identity, individuality, or spirit. I am a snowflake that has fell upon a window, stuck for a brief time, melted some, then forced its way into the wind and onto the path of its belonging. On that path, the puzzle pieces are not matched, and the picture is not yet complete, but from the looks of it it is a bright future with no ifs, ands, or buts about it.