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My Secret Place Short Essay About Life

What is your attitude towards loneliness? Do you think it is a curse when you are isolated from the rest of the world, left face-to-face with yourself? Or do you, on the contrary, seek it, appreciating each moment of silence you can snatch from the surrounding world? These small breaks can help you replenish your energy and reorganize your thoughts, so that you can start each day as a new one—not as an extension of a previous one. As for me, I am more of the second kind of person; solitude for me is a gift, which is valued less by people than it should be accorded.

In my childhood and teen years, I had a perfect place to go to when I felt like being on my own. In a small town in the center of America, where I lived back then, we had a steep hill on the outskirts. On its top, an old warehouse stood. No one, even older people, seemed to know who built that warehouse in such an inconvenient place, and what for. Some said smugglers used it during World War II for their own purposes;

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Personal Narrative: My Secret Place Essay

Once upon a time, I saw the world like I thought everyone should see it, the way I thought the world should be. I saw a place where there were endless trials, where you could try again and again, to do the things that you really meant to do. But it was Jeffy that changed all of that for me. If you break a pencil in half, no matter how much tape you try to put on it, it'll never be the same pencil again. Second chances were always second chances. No matter what you did the next time, the first time would always be there, and you could never erase that. There were so many pencils that I never meant to break, so many things I wish I had never said, wish I had never done. Most of them were small, little things, things that you could try to glue back together, and that would be good enough. Some of them were different though, when you broke the pencil, the lead inside it fell out, and broke too, so that no matter which way you tried to arrange it, they would never fit together and become whole again. Jeff would have thought so too. For he was the one that made me see what the world really was. He made the world into a fairy tale, but only where your happy endings were what you had to make, what you had to become to write the words, happily ever after. But ever since I was three, I remember wishing I knew what the real story was.
I look up at the tall, pretty tree. I toddle my way past the kitchen sink, past the table, and all the way across the room to the big, black piano. The piano was so pretty and shiny. One day, I told myself, when I was bigger, I will learn how to play music on the big piano. I climb up on top of the piano bench, on top of the keys, and onto the very top of the piano, and sit down so that my legs were swinging just on top of the keys. My toy stuffed animals are scattered all over the living room floor. I pretend that I am a great big giant, and I am looking down at the little village below, the carpet of the living room as the ground, and my toy stuffed animals as the little people. I wonder what it would really be like to be able to see what the world was like as a giant, and not a little toddler. I swing around the piano top, so that I am facing the other side, the side where I cannot see the living room. I see a tiny little space, made by the sofa and the piano, perfect play space for a three year old. I want to go in there, but at the top of the piano, with no keys under me, it is too high and too scary, so I turn around, and cautiously step down, pounding some of the keys with my foot, playing a complex chord.
Safely on the ground, I turn and walk towards the back of the piano, the part that was covering the wall. But where is the little room? I peak in through the space between the piano and the sofa. I see a glimpse of the tree and a speck of gold and red. There it is. I shove my way past the arm rest of the couch, where I turn sideways and squeeze my way through the opening.
I didn't know if I liked it. I wanted to...

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