In the Eve of an Admission essay

There's a scene in Mrs. Dalloway which now shocks me more than ever, in it, Mrs.Dalloway sees herself carrying her life in her arms as if it were a child, presenting it to her parents and saying "this is my life, this is what i've made of it".
We'll all experience this fear sooner or later in our lifes, the terrifying notion of what we'll become, and if its going to be half as wonderful as we'd once hoped. Of course we all suppose that we'll be happy, when we're young we take note on everything our parents do that annoys us, with the dream to perfect them "We'll be everything they're not".
Wake up.
Everyone ends up making some of our parents mistakes. Hopefully the line of mistakes slims down from generation to generation, but who knows.
There is also the uncertainty of WHAT to become, what's the recipe for happiness? Has anyone ever trully achieved it? Or maybe forget happiness and just plan to get by, afterall the idea of happiness being a destination, seems very absurd. Every person older than is prove. Happiness exists only as moments, and god forbid they only happen when we are young.
*NOTE TO SELF = don't stress your kids about failure
*ANOTHER NOTE TO SELF = or maybe you should, it builds character
*LAST NOTE TO SELF = everything is so redundant, dont ask yourself anything, or do, but know that you should never never never arive at a firm conclusion.
What would I give for a simple truth? And quoting poor Poe

"And Despite of all dogmas current in all ages, 1 settled fact is greater than 10 sages "

But back to the 'presenting life'. Studying the life of the people I admire, and getting to know them, makes me wonder of how i want mine. I know I need to make a concious effort if I'm ever going to direct my life to where i want it to be, but... it's overwhealming to me, nothing else is as important as this , and how can we just....START DOING IT?! John lennon would have understood.

A Poem to the Poe soul, Byronic, Satieric and Thorou

The luring darkness which so entices me at first is ursurped. For the underlying prescence quickly comes forth. Behind the gloom there is much frailty, behind the repellement , a vault of desire.
No one could keep up with you could they? Why would you even try? No, its best to let things be, for another day, month, decade.
And so your life swept by. Being alone isn't so bad when you can only be comforted by yourself. You choose to walk a lonely road, and find company in things which could never leave you. Nature, books, thoughts became the protagonists of your life .
Stepping away from the interminable flow of society and its triffles, you write. How can they understand? The things considered impertinent and unimportant, are to you quite pertinent and of the utmost importance.
A martyr of your times, you'll open the doors to thousands after you.
The coldness which appears of heart is only a defence for the effects the world has on your shoulders. You see what most ignore , in anger you disown the people you grew up with, the only ones you know.
"There is Society where None intrude"