VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: 'What if We Tried Something…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: What if We Tried Something New? I want to play with you. I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant…
What if We Tried Something New?
I want to play with you.
I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant way possible. I want to drag you to every arcade that still has flickering neon signs and sticky floors, pouring coins into machines until our pockets are empty and our laughter turns hoarse. Just bring the next game, the next ridiculous challenge — no, don’t tell us the rules; let us figure it out as we go, inventing them badly and breaking them better.
Let’s climb the big old oak tree in the park at dusk even though we’re both too old for it, bark scraping our palms, leaves tangled in our hair, daring each other to go one branch higher. We invent ridiculous rules for tag that change every thirty seconds. Hide and seek in the city at midnight — you disappear into the bright chaos of the laneways and I’ll still find you because I can hear your laugh from three blocks away.
When we play, we make the rules.
I want to build blanket forts with you in the living room when it’s raining outside. Proper ones — fairy lights strung across, too many pillows, a playlist that makes no sense. We’ll declare it our kingdom and make up laws that only last until someone needs the bathroom. Then we’ll tear it all down at 2 a.m. and start again because the first version wasn’t quite right.
Let’s get lost in a second-hand bookstore and play the game where we only speak in titles we pull off the shelves. Let’s play tourists in our own city — terrible photos, exaggerated accents, asking strangers for directions we don’t need. Let’s play poker with matchsticks and imaginary millions. Let’s crank the music so loud the neighbours bang on the wall and we just turn it up and dance like idiots until we can’t breathe.
Hey — do you still play like a kid when no one’s watching? Guess we’ll find out.
When we play, we make the rules.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: 'What if We Tried Something…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: What if We Tried Something New? I want to play with you. I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant way…
What if We Tried Something New?
I want to play with you.
I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant way possible. I want to drag you to every arcade that still has flickering neon signs and sticky floors, pouring coins into machines until our pockets are empty and our laughter turns hoarse. Just bring the next game, the next ridiculous challenge — no, don’t tell us the rules; let us figure it out as we go, inventing them badly and breaking them better.
Let’s climb the big old oak tree in the park at dusk even though we’re both too old for it, bark scraping our palms, leaves tangled in our hair, daring each other to go one branch higher. Let’s invent ridiculous rules for tag that change every thirty seconds. Let’s play hide and seek in the city at midnight — you hide in the bright chaos of the laneways and I’ll still find you because I can hear your laugh from three blocks away.
When we play, we make the rules.
I want to build blanket forts with you in the living room when it’s raining outside. Proper ones — fairy lights strung across, too many pillows, a playlist that makes no sense. We’ll declare it our kingdom and make up laws that only last until someone needs the bathroom. Then we’ll tear it all down at 2 a.m. and start again because the first version wasn’t quite right.
Let’s get lost in a second-hand bookstore and play the game where we only speak in titles we pull off the shelves. Let’s play tourists in our own city — terrible photos, exaggerated accents, asking strangers for directions we don’t need. Let’s play poker with matchsticks and imaginary millions. Let’s crank the music so loud the neighbours bang on the wall and we just turn it up and dance like idiots until we can’t breathe.
Hey — do you still play like a kid when no one’s watching? Guess we’ll find out.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: 'What if We Tried Something…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: What if We Tried Something New? I want to play with you. I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant way…
What if We Tried Something New?
I want to play with you.
I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant way possible. I want to drag you to every arcade that still has flickering neon signs and sticky floors, pouring coins into machines until our pockets are empty and our laughter turns hoarse. Just bring the next game, the next ridiculous challenge — no, don’t tell us the rules; let us figure it out as we go, inventing them badly and breaking them better.
Let’s climb the big old oak tree in the park at dusk even though we’re both too old for it, bark scraping our palms, leaves tangled in our hair, daring each other to go one branch higher. Let’s invent ridiculous rules for tag that change every thirty seconds. Let’s play hide and seek in the city at midnight — you hide in the bright chaos of the laneways and I’ll still find you because I can hear your laugh from three blocks away.
When we play, we make the rules.
I want to build blanket forts with you in the living room when it’s raining outside. Proper ones, with fairy lights and too many pillows and a playlist that makes no sense. We’ll declare it our kingdom and make up laws that only last until someone needs the bathroom. Then we’ll tear it all down at 2 a.m. and start again because the first version wasn’t quite right.
Let’s get lost in a second-hand bookstore and play the game where we only speak in titles we pull off the shelves. Let’s play tourists in our own city — take terrible photos, speak in exaggerated accents, ask strangers for directions we don’t need. Let’s play poker with matchsticks and imaginary millions. Let’s play music so loud the neighbours bang on the wall and we just turn it up and dance like idiots until we can’t breathe.
Hey — do you still play like a kid when no one’s watching? Guess we’ll find out.
When we play, we make the rules.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: ‘All the characters in We Have Always…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 87.5%: Shirley Jackson’s domestic horror “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” explores the themes of isolation,…
Shirley Jackson’s domestic horror “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” explores the themes of isolation, prejudice and madness in a patriarchal society, following the lives of two sisters who defy social norms and traditional gender roles. Jackson generally contends that entrapment occurs in various ways that shape individual identities, while she also suggests the existence of different forms of imprisonment- social, psychological and domestic, which can result in distinct outcomes. Jackson highlights how all characters are trapped in some capacity, through individuals who reject society or a society that ostracizes individuals into isolation. However, Jackson also depicts how individuals can find freedom within self-imposed confinement.
Jackson conveys how certain characters actively shut out society as a direct response to patriarchal expectations, revealing a form of self-imposed entrapment to face the toxic social environment. The women of the village stay at home, with the responsibility of all domestic duties, demonstrating the expectations of the patriarchal society. Merricat first highlights with negative connotations “the women [age] with grey evil weariness”. Merricat’s disdainful focalisation exposes the rigidity of gender norms in the village, depicting her rejection of patriarchal expectations. Jackson then demonstrates how female characters thus withdraw from these expectations through the Blackwood sisters who maintain the household without a male figure. In early narrations, Merricat remarks “everyone else in my family is dead”, which acts as a blunt symbol that shows how patriarchal power is erased from their domestic space. This challenges the presumption that females require male supervision to sustain, by cutting off society’s expectations through the seemingly passive entrapment. To further realise the confinement of their living space, Merricat then applies ritualistic methods of “magic” to protect the house and shut out the patriarchal impacts on them, as in “I could re-seal the protection around Constance and shut Charles out”. Jackson again uses focalisation of forceful language to expose the threat patriarchal entitlement has on the sisters’ autonomy and Merricat’s strong rejection through her deliberate self-isolation. Therefore, some individuals’ withdrawal from society into their own dominating space displays a responsive action to resist against the restricting gender expectations.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Clay clung to her ankles, sticky and cold, red dust curling into the fine cracks of her heels, pressed deep…
Clay clung to her ankles, sticky and cold, red dust curling into the fine cracks of her heels, pressed deep into the soles of her feet like the soil of her village itself, coarse and unyielding, a remnant of fields tilled long before she had words for labor or desire. Flooded rice paddies stretched in endless, mirror-gray planes beneath a sky low and flat, holding dawn in a silence that measured every step she took. The air smelled of wet earth, copper, and river silt; clay rims pressed into her wrists, biting, reminding her of the weight she was meant to bear, and the rhythm of the work entered her body before it had a name: lift, step, lower, balance. Her mother crouched near the charcoal fire, fingers blackened, eyes unwavering.
“Faster. Be useful.”
Water slid down her knuckles as she lifted another jar, clay soft beneath her feet while the paddies held the sky without rippling, clouds breaking only when her steps disturbed the surface, dust curling along ankles, into fingers, into the small creases of her skin, carrying the quiet insistence of everything she had been taught to carry, everything she had been measured against before she knew the shape of her own desire.
Decades later, the kitchen smelled of garlic, simmering water, and the faint metallic tang of polished tiles beneath her fingers. Fluorescent light hummed overhead, flattening the edges of bowls and counters with impartial certainty. Rice grains slipped through her fingers, glinting like tiny rubies, knives struck cutting boards with steady arcs, plastic bags folded themselves into neat triangles, tucked away with meticulous care. Wash, chop, stack, fold, repeat — the rhythm pressed into her spine, her limbs, her awareness.
A morning came when frost dusted the windowpanes, barely visible, like a whisper of what might be possible beyond the walls. The children pressed their hands to the glass, noses steaming, delighted by the delicate crystals, and she traced the faint outlines beside theirs with her fingers, feeling the cold seep through her gloves, quick and sharp, a sensation she had rarely allowed herself to notice.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: And yet things stay the same…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: May 6th 2026 Hey Dad, it's me, Eli. Your youngest child. At the time I am writing this, I am 19 years old and…
May 6th 2026
Hey Dad, it's me, Eli. Your youngest child. At the time I am writing this, I am 19 years old and I’ve moved to Melbourne with Mum and Rose since your conviction. Rose is doing well now, she’s studying biomedicine at Melbourne. Robbie is in England, he needed to be away from you. And Theo, well, he still hasn’t quite recovered since everything that happened. You know, since the crowbar incident.
It’s been thirty days since they told us you were gone. Thirty days since that shank in a prison cafeteria did what years of our prayers couldn’t do - it stopped you.
I’m 19 now. But reading this paper, I feel 4 years old again. Hiding under Rose’s bed with Theo and Robbie, holding our breath till we turned purple, so that you couldn’t find us after those terrifyingly enormous bottles of Rum evaporated.
I’m 10 years old. Watching Rose in her final year of school focusing more on our own safety than her career. Watching her act as a human shield for us. So that we were safe from you.
I was 14, watching my mother having her dignity stripped from her, for solely staying married to you, because you’d never let her divorce you. And if the thought even popped into her head, you would sure as hell let her know about it.
For 14 years you were my weather. I woke up every morning checking the sky of your face to see if it was safe to speak, safe to eat, safe to exist. Dad, you didn’t just give us pain. You gave us a lifetime of flinching at loud noises. You gave us the insufferable agony of loving someone we were all terrified of.
They say you were jailed for domestic violence and possession of drugs. They say that you paid off your debt. But 5 years in a cell doesn’t pay for the 14 years of my stolen childhood.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'Through the storm'
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: It has been 5 long years. This prison humans call an apartment is not for us marmots. Why couldn’t the Smiths…
It has been 5 long years.
This prison humans call an apartment is not for us marmots. Why couldn’t the Smiths get a regular pet; a dog, a cat? Nope, they kidnap me from Romania, abduct me and take me away from my family and friends.
I don’t understand these creatures. Materialistic lifestyle, confined habitats. I need to get out of here, get through the storm.
I sit in my confined cell, late at night, reminiscing about home; The Carpathian peaks, rolling endlessly into the horizon, draped in native flora and pine so dark it almost appeared black in contrast to burning orange of the autumn sky. A calm breeze, seeping past the extreme wildflowers and bright, overgrown grass moving as if it was breathing, rippling in slow motion. Vast meadows so wide it made the sky feel disproportional. The smell of nature; rain and cold stone, the bright sunlight gleaming onto my fur. Where a storm was physical, not unwanted adversity which needs to be handled.
My eyes slowly widened as I awoke, to meet my gaze was the same four walls. The same rectangle of grey light from the window which never got closed. Air conditioner pumping artificial weather into my cage, not calm, but thick, always carrying the unwanted faint stench of old carpet and dust. Get me out of this hell hole.
‘MARIUS!’, I flinched hard. Gloria. She was the worst, always waking up at the crack of dawn. She never stopped talking and always persisted that I should eat less. She jabbed me with her fingers, rocked me around in my crate, then opened the glass door to the apartment balcony. She truly believes I like her.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'Through the storm'
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: It has been 5 long years. This prison humans call an apartment is not for us marmots. Why couldn’t the Smiths…
It has been 5 long years.
This prison humans call an apartment is not for us marmots. Why couldn’t the Smiths get a regular pet; a dog, a cat? Nope, they kidnap me from Romania, abduct me and take me away from my family and friends.
I don’t understand these creatures. Materialistic lifestyle, confined habitats. I need to get out of here, get through the storm.
I sat in my confined cell, late at night and reminiscing about home; The Carpathian peaks, rolling endlessly into the horizon, draped in native flora and pine so dark it almost appeared black in contrast to burning orange of the autumn sky. A calm breeze, seeping past the extreme wildflowers and bright, overgrown grass moving as if it was breathing, rippling in slow motion. Vast meadows so wide it made the sky feel disproportional. The smell of nature; rain and cold stone, the bright sunlight gleaming onto my fur. Where a storm was physical, not unwanted adversity which needs to be handled.
My eyes slowly widened as I awoke, to meet my gaze was the same four walls. The same rectangle of grey light from the window which never got closed. Air conditioner pumping artificial weather into my cage, not calm, but thick, always carrying the unwanted faint stench of old carpet and dust. Get me out of this hell hole.
‘MARIUS!’, I flinched hard. Gloria. She was the worst, always waking up at the crack of dawn. She never stopped talking and always persisted that I should eat less. She jabbed me with her fingers, rocked me around in my crate, then opened the glass door to the apartment balcony. She truly believes I like her.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'Through the storm'
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: It has been 5 long years. This prison humans call an apartment is not for us marmots. Why couldn’t the Smiths…
It has been 5 long years.
This prison humans call an apartment is not for us marmots. Why couldn’t the Smiths get a regular pet; a dog, a cat? Nope, they kidnap me from Romania, abduct me and take me away from my family and friends.
I don’t understand these creatures. Materialistic lifestyle, confined habitats. I need to get out of here, get through the storm.
I sat in my confined cell, late at night and reminiscing about home; The Carpathian peaks, rolling endlessly into the horizon, draped in native flora and pine so dark it almost appeared black in contrast to burning orange of the autumn sky. A calm breeze, seeping past the extreme wildflowers and bright, overgrown grass moving as if it was breathing, rippling in slow motion. Vast meadows so wide it made the sky feel disproportional. The smell of nature; rain and cold stone, the bright sunlight gleaming onto my fur. Where a storm was physical, not unwanted adversity which needs to be handled.
My eyes slowly widened as I awoke, to meet my gaze was the same four walls. The same rectangle of grey light from the window which never got closed. Air conditioner pumping artificial weather into my cage, not calm, but thick, always carrying the unwanted faint stench of old carpet and dust. Get me out of this hell hole.
‘MARIUS!’, I flinched hard. Gloria. She was the worst, always waking up at the crack of dawn. She never stopped talking and always persisted that I should eat less. She jabbed me with her fingers, rocked me around in my crate, then opened the glass door to the apartment balcony. She truly believes I like her.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'When we play, we make the rules.'
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: What if We Tried Something New? Let’s call it something new. No, not because we understand it yet. Because…
What if We Tried Something New?
Let’s call it something new. No, not because we understand it yet. Because sometimes you have to play with a thing before you know what it means.
Let’s start small. Let’s put a blanket over two chairs and call it a house. Actually, no , not a house. Too ordinary. Let’s call it a kingdom. A proper one. Pegs on the roof, cushions for walls, a torch for the moon, and a handwritten sign at the front that says Knock First, because even imaginary places deserve respect.
Let’s make rules. Serious rules. Everyone gets a turn. No one gets laughed at unless they are laughing too. If someone says stop, we stop. If someone is scared, we believe them. If someone is outside the circle, we move the circle.
That one matters.
Let’s pretend the carpet is ocean. Let’s pretend the couch is a mountain. Let’s pretend the hallway is a tunnel and the dark at the end is not frightening, just waiting to be named. Let’s pack snacks for the journey , dry cereal, stolen biscuits, one bruised apple, very heroic , and let’s go.
Actually, wait.
Let’s bring our minds with us, the minds that create rules just to get an edge on our friends.
Maybe it is a door. Maybe it is a bird. Maybe it is a cracked window, a red balloon, a photograph, a chair turned backwards, a sentence someone said once and then pretended not to mean. Maybe it looks simple from the outside. Most important things do. A toy. A stage. A game. A child with chalk on their fingers drawing a world big enough to stand inside.
That’s the trick, isn’t it?
Play looks small until you enter it.
Then suddenly, the ordinary world loosens. The floor becomes lava. The stick becomes a sword. The sheet becomes a sail. The cardboard box becomes a rocket, a boat, a coffin, a castle, a time machine, a place to hide when the real house gets too loud. Doors closing. Kettles boiling. Someone saying, “I’m fine,” in that voice that means nobody is fine.
So we play louder.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'When we play, we make the rules.'
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: What if We Tried Something New? Let’s call it something new. No, not because we understand it yet. Because…
What if We Tried Something New?
Let’s call it something new. No, not because we understand it yet. Because sometimes you have to play with a thing before you know what it means.
Let’s start small. Let’s put a blanket over two chairs and call it a house. Actually, no , not a house. Too ordinary. Let’s call it a kingdom. A proper one. Pegs on the roof, cushions for walls, a torch for the moon, and a handwritten sign at the front that says Knock First, because even imaginary places deserve respect.
Let’s make rules. Serious rules. Everyone gets a turn. No one gets laughed at unless they are laughing too. If someone says stop, we stop. If someone is scared, we believe them. If someone is outside the circle, we move the circle.
That one matters.
Let’s pretend the carpet is ocean. Let’s pretend the couch is a mountain. Let’s pretend the hallway is a tunnel and the dark at the end is not frightening, just waiting to be named. Let’s pack snacks for the journey , dry cereal, stolen biscuits, one bruised apple, very heroic , and let’s go.
Actually, wait.
Let’s bring our minds with us, the minds that create rules just to get an edge on our friends.
Maybe it is a door. Maybe it is a bird. Maybe it is a cracked window, a red balloon, a photograph, a chair turned backwards, a sentence someone said once and then pretended not to mean. Maybe it looks simple from the outside. Most important things do. A toy. A stage. A game. A child with chalk on their fingers drawing a world big enough to stand inside.
That’s the trick, isn’t it?
Play looks small until you enter it.
Then suddenly, the ordinary world loosens. The floor becomes lava. The stick becomes a sword. The sheet becomes a sail. The cardboard box becomes a rocket, a boat, a coffin, a castle, a time machine, a place to hide when the real house gets too loud. Doors closing. Kettles boiling. Someone saying, “I’m fine,” in that voice that means nobody is fine.
So we play louder.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Play to win
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: The clock’s ticking blares like a siren in my head. I sit hovering over the board, fingers wavering above the…
The clock’s ticking blares like a siren in my head. I sit hovering over the board, fingers wavering above the knight, my hand trembling as if one wrong move may break something far more fragile than just the game. Across from me, my opponent sits still, giving nothing away, as though the clock bends in his favour. I remind myself I’m here to win, that’s the rule, that’s the whole point. Isn’t it?
From the moment I was shown how to move a piece, from the moment my old man would hover over our game board telling me to “think ahead, Eli. Always think ahead,” everything has been about winning. Win pieces. Win the position. Win the game. Win the respect. Win. Win. Win.
Now I’m here in the final game for the title that everyone has told me will define my future. My fingers inch closer to the knight. I pull them back. I’m winning, and I know I am. I’ve played this position hundreds of times, drilled into me by my coach with a single mantra: ‘Control the centre, calculate deeper than your opponent, build pressure’. I can already see it; the knight takes the pawn, the bishop forced back, the queen slides across, check, check, then checkmate. Clean. Precise. Inevitable. So why am I freezing up now?
I glance at my opponent, his grin reminiscent of my father’s smile. I was young, sitting at the kitchen table across from Dad. The board was raggedy, a missing pawn replaced by a coin, and the rook was chipped. He smiled, glaring at me. “You’re thinking too hard”. But I want to win; I need to win. “Is that why you play? To win?” Back then, the question didn’t make sense. Of course, that’s why I played; everyone wants to win. But is that the goal?
The clock continues hammering its rhythm into my head. My opponent shifts slightly, still saying nothing. I force myself to calculate again, dive deeper, apply more pressure. The variations branch out in my mind, each one leading somewhere sharper, more decisive. Somewhere final.
VCE · Language Analysis
Language Analysis: Play to Win
VCE Language Analysis essay scoring 87.5%: The clock’s ticking blares like a siren in my head. I sit hovering over the board, fingers wavering above the…
The clock’s ticking blares like a siren in my head. I sit hovering over the board, fingers wavering above the knight, my hand trembling as if one wrong move may break something far more fragile than just the game. Across from me, my opponent sits still, giving nothing away, as though the clock bends in his favour. I remind myself I’m here to win, that’s the rule, that’s the whole point. Isn’t it?
From the moment I was shown how to move a piece, from the moment my old man would hover over our game board telling me to “think ahead, Eli. Always think ahead,” everything has been about winning. Win pieces. Win the position. Win the game. Win the respect. Win. Win. Win.
Now I’m here in the final game for the title that everyone has told me will define my future. My fingers inch closer to the knight. I pull them back. I’m winning, and I know I am. I’ve played this position hundreds of times, drilled into me by my coach with a single mantra: ‘Control the centre, calculate deeper than your opponent, build pressure’. I can already see it; the knight takes the pawn, the bishop forced back, the queen slides across, check, check, then checkmate. Clean. Precise. Inevitable. So why am I freezing up now?
I glance at my opponent, his grin reminiscent of my father’s smile. I was young, sitting at the kitchen table across from Dad. The board was raggedy, a missing pawn replaced by a coin, and the rook was chipped. He smiled, glaring at me. “You’re thinking too hard”. But I want to win; I need to win. “Is that why you play? To win?” Back then, the question didn’t make sense. Of course, that’s why I played; everyone wants to win. But is that the goal?
The clock continues hammering its rhythm into my head. My opponent shifts slightly, still saying nothing. I force myself to calculate again, dive deeper, apply more pressure. The variations branch out in my mind, each one leading somewhere sharper, more decisive. Somewhere final.
VCE · Language Analysis
Language Analysis: Play to win
VCE Language Analysis essay scoring 90%: The clock’s ticking blares like a siren in my head. I sit hovering over the board, fingers wavering above the…
The clock’s ticking blares like a siren in my head. I sit hovering over the board, fingers wavering above the knight, my hand trembling as if one wrong move may break something far more fragile than just the game. Across from me, my opponent sits still, giving nothing away, as though the clock bends in his favour. I remind myself I’m here to win, that’s the rule, that’s the whole point. Isn’t it?
From the moment I was shown how to move a piece, from the moment my old man would hover over our game board telling me to “think ahead, Eli. Always think ahead,” everything has been about winning. Win pieces. Win the position. Win the game. Win the respect. Win. Win. Win.
Now I’m here in the final game for the title that everyone has told me will define my future. My fingers inch closer to the knight. I pull them back. I’m winning, and I know I am. I’ve played this position hundreds of times, drilled into me by my coach with a single mantra: ‘Control the centre, calculate deeper than your opponent, build pressure’. I can already see it; the knight takes the pawn, the bishop forced back, the queen slides across, check, check, then checkmate. Clean. Precise. Inevitable. So why am I freezing up now?
I glance at my opponent, his grin reminiscent of my father’s smile. I was young, sitting at the kitchen table across from Dad. The board was raggedy, a missing pawn replaced by a coin, and the rook was chipped. He smiled, glaring at me. “You’re thinking too hard”. But I want to win; I need to win. “Is that why you play? To win?” Back then, the question didn’t make sense. Of course, that’s why I played; everyone wants to win. But is that the goal?
The clock continues hammering its rhythm into my head. My opponent shifts slightly, still saying nothing. I force myself to calculate again, dive deeper, apply more pressure. The variations branch out in my mind, each one leading somewhere sharper, more decisive. Somewhere final.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a section B personal journeys…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: As we stand on the very edge of everything that we have worked towards, it's rather tempting to ask ourselves…
As we stand on the very edge of everything that we have worked towards, it's rather tempting to ask ourselves the question, "From what angle do we view life, and how does it help us develop?" We've been sold a myth of a linear journey, a straightforward path from ambition to achievement; society encourages us to view obstacles as nuisances to be bypassed. However, this artificial version of progress is a stagnation in disguise. True development does not come from one comfortable stretch of life, but rather in reality, when faced with challenges, which force us to halt, pivot and view our trajectory from a radically different angle. Only then can we reach for our potential.
We are, by nature, drawn to the fantasy of a comfortable life through one simple angle in which we can reach for our personal development. There is rampant demand for pathways in careers with high rewards but with low or no obstacles, highlighting the want of little effort and high returns in our current culture. We are poised by the current proliferation of social media content, where sensationalised highlights often lead individuals into an "echo chamber" of sorts, building on the desire to live out their dream of a comfortable journey. Perhaps from viewing the lives of influencers in social media's comfortable lives with little visible effort, triggers a primal instinct within human nature, to discover shortcuts with minimal effort, in which we view life through one narrow angle. With that in mind, this could be precisely the reason why J.K. Rowling's fantastical stories of Harry Potter continue to enrapture modern audiences. Within the discussion, it is crucial to note how viewing life from an uncomfortable angle is. As quoted from Marcus Aurelius, former emperor of the Roman Empire, "Comfort is the worst addiction". angles develop us as they force us to come up with solutions on the spot, challenging our intellect and thus developing our thinking, character and identity. Nonetheless, whether it be sensationalised social media highlights or wizards living in an escapist fantasy, it is clear that we live in a society obsessed with comfort by simply bypassing obstacles.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys title: finding my place
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: Kindergarten- The Sowing In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I…
Kindergarten- The Sowing
In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember the classroom as a seamless collective of sticky fingers and shared crayons; we were a group of four-year-olds who saw the world as a collaborative playground. There were no ranks and no "better thans." We were just a circle of friends, holding hands during carpet time, our identities blurred into one happy, unmeasured mass. To us, every child in that room was an equal companion. In those days, finding my place was as simple as finding a gap in the circle or a warm hand to hold.
I remember the day the stickers were introduced. My teacher smiled warmly as she moved through the room, pressing tiny, shimmering icons onto our shirts. Some were gold, some were silver, and some shirts remained bare. At the time, I didn't feel an intoxicating rush, and I didn't feel superior. We didn't understand the hierarchy yet. We were just happy little kids, still laughing at the same jokes and still sharing the same blue crayons. To us, the stickers were just pretty decorations on our shirts, not labels on our souls.
I remained oblivious to the way we were being indoctrinated. I didn't recognize it then, but my teacher was quietly initiating a social order that would eventually consume our identities. She was planting the seeds of a competition that we wouldn't learn to escape for decades. In that brightly coloured room, filled with blu-sticks and crayon drawings, we were still the same, still equal, completely unaware that the system was already beginning to mold us into deriving our value from the achievements of those around us. We didn't know that the 'Gold Star' was the first lesson in learning that our worth was no longer something we possessed within ourselves, but something we calculated by measuring the distance between our success and our peers.
Primary school- Taking Root
By primary school, the system was no longer hidden; it was deliberate, structured.
In those early years, my curiosity was an open door. I was a child who lived in the "why," seeing the world not as a set of rules, but as a vast, shimmering horizon of possibility. I loved the way a new fact felt like a secret I had just uncovered, and I would spend hours lost in the library, chasing my own wonder through the pages of books. To me, finding my place didn’t mean finding my rank; it meant standing at the edge of that horizon and realizing I was part of something infinite. I felt whole simply because I was curious. I didn't feel the need to be "better" than anyone else; I was content to stand fully in who I was, a small girl with a library card and an infinite appetite for knowledge. My roots were touching the earth, and I was growing toward my own light.
But as the years went on, that horizon began to shrink. I didn't realize it then, but I was becoming a loose thread in someone else’s design, being pulled away from my own wonder and woven into a pattern of measurement I never asked for.
I still remember the day we were sorted into our reading groups. My heart pounded as my teacher called out our names. One by one, each of us was assigned a colour that everyone understood, but no one said aloud.
“Yellow group,” she said.
At the time, I didn't fully grasp why these random colours mattered to everyone else, and yet I felt my intrinsic curiosity, the pure, innocent hunger to just know, began to wither. I felt an invisible wall grow, brick by invisible brick. I felt a subtle drop in my chest, realizing my friends were in green: the 'smart' group. Suddenly, I was no longer their equal, but someone below them, defined by a label I didn't choose that dictated the help I received and how I was seen by my teachers, my friends, and eventually, myself. For the first time, I felt that being whole was no longer enough; I had to be perfect to be seen. My joy was traded for a feverish need for validation, and I stopped learning to satisfy my mind and started learning to satisfy the scale."
That quiet jealousy wasn't just about wanting to be in another group. It was the beginning of comparison becoming something I internalised. Something I grew to obsess over.
And it wasn't just confined to school.
“You should be more like your cousin; she always listens to her mother.”
“Your friend is so much more studious than you.”
At first, these comments were confusing, but over time, the message became a permanent fixture in my mind: who I was alone wasn’t the standard. I was no longer a curious child exploring a world of wonder; I was a data point being measured against a pattern of perfection that I could never quite reach. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I realized that in this "design," my only way to be "enough" was to be "more" than the person next to me. I was no longer the girl standing on a hilltop; I was a shadow searching for light, not the light of discovery, but the flickering light of comparative superiority. I was no longer finding my place through discovery; I was fighting for my place on a leaderboard.
High School- The Overgrowth
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a section B personal journeys…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Every journey is fraught with challenges, yet we have the temptation to remain confined in our narrow…
Every journey is fraught with challenges, yet we have the temptation to remain confined in our narrow perspectives; when we refuse to view our experiences from different angles, we become trapped in an echo chamber of our own making, making us unable to develop. Thus, an individual's own stubbornness becomes their own barrier, preventing them from developing through exposure to different angles. As referenced earlier, with the rapid growth of social media, it is easy to trap an individual in a bubble of their own thoughts and narrow perspective, only feeding opinions and discussions that appeal to
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys title: finding my place
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: Kindergarten- The Sowing In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I…
Kindergarten- The Sowing
In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember the classroom as a seamless collective of sticky fingers and shared crayons; we were a group of four-year-olds who saw the world as a collaborative playground. There were no ranks and no "better thans." We were just a circle of friends, holding hands during carpet time, our identities blurred into one happy, unmeasured mass. To us, every child in that room was an equal companion. In those days, finding my place was as simple as finding a gap in the circle or a warm hand to hold.
I remember the day the stickers were introduced. My teacher smiled warmly as she moved through the room, pressing tiny, shimmering icons onto our shirts. Some were gold, some were silver, and some shirts remained bare. At the time, I didn't feel an intoxicating rush, and I didn't feel superior. We didn't understand the hierarchy yet. We were just happy little kids, still laughing at the same jokes and still sharing the same blue crayons. To us, the stickers were just pretty decorations on our shirts, not labels on our souls.
I remained oblivious to the way we were being indoctrinated. I didn't recognize it then, but my teacher was quietly initiating a social order that would eventually consume our identities. She was planting the seeds of a competition that we wouldn't learn to escape for decades. In that brightly coloured room, filled with blu-sticks and crayon drawings, we were still the same, still equal, completely unaware that the system was already beginning to mold us into deriving our value from the achievements of those around us. We didn't know that the 'Gold Star' was the first lesson in learning that our worth was no longer something we possessed within ourselves, but something we calculated by measuring the distance between our success and our peers.
Primary school- Taking Root
By primary school, the system was no longer hidden; it was deliberate, structured.
In those early years, my curiosity was an open door. I was a child who lived in the "why," seeing the world not as a set of rules, but as a vast, shimmering horizon of possibility. I loved the way a new fact felt like a secret I had just uncovered, and I would spend hours lost in the library, chasing my own wonder through the pages of books. To me, finding my place didn’t mean finding my rank; it meant standing at the edge of that horizon and realizing I was part of something infinite. I felt whole simply because I was curious. I didn't feel the need to be "better" than anyone else; I was content to stand fully in who I was, a small girl with a library card and an infinite appetite for knowledge. My roots were touching the earth, and I was growing toward my own light.
But as the years went on, that horizon began to shrink. I didn't realize it then, but I was becoming a loose thread in someone else’s design, being pulled away from my own wonder and woven into a pattern of measurement I never asked for.
I still remember the day we were sorted into our reading groups. My heart pounded as my teacher called out our names. One by one, each of us was assigned a colour that everyone understood, but no one said aloud.
“Yellow group” she said.
At the time, I didn't fully grasp why these random colours mattered to everyone else, and yet I felt my intrinsic curiosity, the pure, innocent hunger to just know, began to wither. I felt an invisible wall grow, brick by invisible brick. I felt a subtle drop in my chest, realizing my friends were in green: the 'smart' group. Suddenly, I was no longer their equal, but someone below them, defined by a label I didn't choose that dictated the help I received and how I was seen by my teachers, my friends, and eventually, myself. For the first time, I felt that being whole was no longer enough; I had to be perfect to be seen. My joy was traded for a feverish need for validation, and I stopped learning to satisfy my mind and started learning to satisfy the scale."
That quiet jealousy wasn't just about wanting to be in another group. It was the beginning of comparison becoming something I internalised. Something that as I grew up began to obsess over.
And it wasn't just confined to school.
“You should be more like your cousin; she always listens to her mother.”
“Your friend is so much more studious than you.”
At first, these comments were confusing, but over time, the message became a permanent fixture in my mind: who I was alone wasn’t the standard. I was no longer a curious child exploring a world of wonder; I was a data point being measured against a pattern of perfection that I could never quite reach. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I realized that in this "design," my only way to be "enough" was to be "more" than the person next to me. I was no longer the girl standing on a hilltop; I was a shadow searching for light, not the light of discovery, but the flickering light of comparative superiority. I was no longer finding my place through discovery; I was fighting for my place on a leaderboard.
High School- The Overgrowth
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys title: finding my place
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: Kindergarten- The sowing In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember…
Kindergarten- The sowing
In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember the classroom as a seamless collective of sticky fingers and shared crayons; we were a group of four-year-olds who saw the world as a collaborative playground. There were no ranks and no "better thans." We were just a circle of friends, holding hands during carpet time, our identities blurred into one happy, unmeasured mass. To us, every child in that room was an equal companion. In those days, finding my place was as simple as finding a gap in the circle or a warm hand to hold.
I remember the day the stickers were introduced. My teacher smiled warmly as she moved through the room, pressing tiny, shimmering icons onto our shirts. Some were gold, some were silver, and some shirts remained bare. At the time, I didn't feel an intoxicating rush, and I didn't feel superior. We didn't understand the hierarchy yet. We were just happy little kids, still laughing at the same jokes and still sharing the same blue crayons. To us, the stickers were just pretty decorations on our shirts, not labels on our souls.
I remained oblivious to the way we were being indoctrinated. I didn't recognize it then, but my teacher was quietly initiating a social order that would eventually consume our identities. She was planting the seeds of a competition that we wouldn't learn to escape for decades. In that brightly coloured room, filled with blu-sticks and crayon drawings, we were still the same, still equal, completely unaware that the system was already beginning to mold us into deriving our value from the achievements of those around us. We didn't know that the 'Gold Star' was the first lesson in learning that our worth was no longer something we possessed within ourselves, but something we calculated by measuring the distance between our success and our peers.
Primary school- taking root
By primary school, the system was no longer hidden; it was deliberate, structured.
In those early years, my curiosity was an open door. I was a child who lived in the "why," seeing the world not as a set of rules, but as a vast, shimmering horizon of possibility. I loved the way a new fact felt like a secret I had just uncovered, and I would spend hours lost in the library, chasing my own wonder through the pages of books. To me, finding my place didn’t mean finding my rank; it meant standing at the edge of that horizon and realizing I was part of something infinite. I felt whole simply because I was curious. I didn't feel the need to be "better" than anyone else; I was content to stand fully in who I was, a small girl with a library card and an infinite appetite for knowledge. My roots were touching the earth, and I was growing toward my own light.
But as the years went on, that horizon began to shrink. I didn't realize it then, but I was becoming a loose thread in someone else’s design, being pulled away from my own wonder and woven into a pattern of measurement I never asked for.
I still remember the day we were sorted into our reading groups. My heart pounded as my teacher called out our names. One by one, each of us assigned a colour that everyone understood, but no one said aloud.
“Yellow group” she said.
At the time, I didn't fully grasp why these random colours mattered to everyone else, and yet I felt my intrinsic curiosity, the pure, innocent hunger to just know, began to wither. I felt an invisible wall grow, brick by invisible brick. I felt a subtle drop in my chest, realizing my friends were in green: the 'smart' group. Suddenly, I was no longer their equal, but someone below them, defined by a label I didn't choose that dictated the help I received and how I was seen by my teachers, my friends, and eventually, myself. For the first time, I felt that being whole was no longer enough; I had to be perfect to be seen. My joy was traded for a feverish need for validation, and I stopped learning to satisfy my mind and started learning to satisfy the scale."
That quiet jealousy wasn't just about wanting to be in another group. It was the beginning of comparison becoming something I internalised. Something that as I grew up began to obsess over.
And it wasn't just confined to school.
“You should be more like your cousin; she always listens to her mother.”
“Your friend is so much more studious than you.”
At first, these comments were confusing, but over time, the message became a permanent fixture in my mind: who I was alone wasn’t the standard. I was no longer a curious child exploring a world of wonder; I was a data point being measured against a pattern of perfection that I could never quite reach. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I realized that in this "design," my only way to be "enough" was to be "more" than the person next to me. I was no longer the girl standing on a hilltop; I was a shadow searching for light, not the light of discovery, but the flickering light of comparative superiority. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I was no longer finding my place through discovery; I was fighting for my place on a leaderboard.
High School- the overgrowth
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Boundaries
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: BOUNDARIES I sit on a shelf for years on end, contributing the paper in my pages to the dusty, learned scent…
BOUNDARIES I sit on a shelf for years on end, contributing the paper in my pages to the dusty, learned scent of the Wren Library. I have not seen the light of day for decades, resting on my marble tomb and encased in my papery box where I will forever reside, and I hold vigil over the memory of my author who penned me, the father of Linear Algebra, Augustin-Loius Cauchy.
Tens of thousands of kilometers away, students slave away at their curricular mathematics. Their thoughts are limited to the box of finite width and length demanded of them by their exam boards, and they are warned that journeying outside these confines to the irrelevant, dangerous, and non-examinable unknown would relegate them to the feared midfields of the ranking ladder.
“Shut up and memorise”, they hear, as they bite into the back of their pencils just to feel something.
They would have been taught that when writing mathematical proofs, the convention is to put a little box at the end of them . [box]. The box is supposed to mean completion. No more mess, nothing beyond those four lines. The thought has behaved itself. Yet, the box is empty. Do these poor students truly understand what they have just inscribed, if they are asked to simply repeat, repeat, repeat?
I look within my own pages. At the theorems, remarks, corollaries and proofs found within. Towards the Theorem names for my late author, which many students are forced to memorise for the sake of examination, without examining their own logic or the hidden geometric beauty of the result. I am but a book. A collection of paper, and a mindless thing, yet the children forced to learn by rote are becoming more like me than my dear author.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys title: finding my place
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: Kindergarten- The sowing In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I…
Kindergarten- The sowing
In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember the classroom as a seamless collective of sticky fingers and shared crayons; we were a group of four-year-olds who saw the world as a collaborative playground. There were no ranks and no "better thans." We were just a circle of friends, holding hands during carpet time, our identities blurred into one happy, unmeasured mass. To us, every child in that room was an equal companion. In those days, finding my place was as simple as finding a gap in the circle or a warm hand to hold.
I remember the day the stickers were introduced. My teacher smiled warmly as she moved through the room, pressing tiny, shimmering icons onto our shirts. Some were gold, some were silver, and some shirts remained bare. At the time, I didn't feel an intoxicating rush, and I didn't feel superior. We didn't understand the hierarchy yet. We were just happy little kids, still laughing at the same jokes and still sharing the same blue crayons. To us, the stickers were just pretty decorations on our shirts, not labels on our souls.
I remained oblivious to the way we were being indoctrinated. I didn't recognize it then, but my teacher was quietly initiating a social order that would eventually consume our identities. She was planting the seeds of a competition that we wouldn't learn to escape for decades. In that brightly coloured room, filled with blu-sticks and crayon drawings, we were still the same, still equal, completely unaware that the system was already beginning to mold us into deriving our value from the achievements of those around us. We didn't know that the 'Gold Star' was the first lesson in learning that our worth was no longer something we possessed within ourselves, but something we calculated by measuring the distance between our success and our peers.
Primary school- taking root
By primary school, the system was no longer hidden; it was deliberate, structured.
In those early years, my curiosity was an open door. I was a child who lived in the "why," seeing the world not as a set of rules, but as a vast, shimmering horizon of possibility. I loved the way a new fact felt like a secret I had just uncovered, and I would spend hours lost in the library, chasing my own wonder through the pages of books. To me, finding my place didn’t mean finding my rank; it meant standing at the edge of that horizon and realizing I was part of something infinite. I felt whole simply because I was curious. I didn't feel the need to be "better" than anyone else; I was content to stand fully in who I was, a small girl with a library card and an infinite appetite for knowledge. My roots were touching the earth, and I was growing toward my own light.
But as the years went on, that horizon began to shrink. I didn't realize it then, but I was becoming a loose thread in someone else’s design, being pulled away from my own wonder and woven into a pattern of measurement I never asked for.
I still remember the day we were sorted into our reading groups. My heart pounded as my teacher called out our names. One by one. Each of us assigned a colour that everyone understood, but no one said aloud.
“Yellow group” she said.
At the time, I didn't fully grasp why these random colours mattered to everyone else, and yet I felt my intrinsic curiosity, the pure, innocent hunger to just know, began to wither. I felt an invisible wall grow, brick by invisible brick. I felt a subtle drop in my chest, realizing my friends were in green: the 'smart' group. Suddenly, I was no longer their equal, but someone below them, defined by a label I didn't choose that dictated the help I received and how I was seen by my teachers, my friends, and eventually, myself. For the first time, I felt that being whole was no longer enough; I had to be perfect to be seen. My joy was traded for a feverish need for validation, and I stopped learning to satisfy my mind and started learning to satisfy the scale."
That quiet jealousy wasn't just about wanting to be in another group. It was the beginning of comparison becoming something I internalised. Something that as I grew up began to obsess over.
And it wasn't just confined to school.
“You should be more like your cousin; she always listens to her mother.”
“Your friend is so much more studious than you.”
At first, these comments were confusing, but over time, the message became a permanent fixture in my mind: who I was alone wasn’t the standard. I was no longer a curious child exploring a world of wonder; I was a data point being measured against a pattern of perfection that I could never quite reach. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I realized that in this "design," my only way to be "enough" was to be "more" than the person next to me. I was no longer the girl standing on a hilltop; I was a shadow searching for light, not the light of discovery, but the flickering light of comparative superiority. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I was no longer finding my place through discovery; I was fighting for my place on a leaderboard.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys title: finding my place
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Kindergarten- The sowing In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I…
Kindergarten- The sowing
In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember the classroom as a seamless collective of sticky fingers and shared crayons; we were a group of four-year-olds who saw the world as a collaborative playground. There were no ranks and no "better thans." We were just a circle of friends, holding hands during carpet time, our identities blurred into one happy, unmeasured mass. To us, every child in that room was an equal companion. In those days, finding my place was as simple as finding a gap in the circle or a warm hand to hold.
I remember the day the stickers were introduced. My teacher smiled warmly as she moved through the room, pressing tiny, shimmering icons onto our shirts. Some were gold, some were silver, and some shirts remained bare. At the time, I didn't feel an intoxicating rush, and I didn't feel superior. We didn't understand the hierarchy yet. We were just happy little kids, still laughing at the same jokes and still sharing the same blue crayons. To us, the stickers were just pretty decorations on our shirts, not labels on our souls.
I remained oblivious to the way we were being indoctrinated. I didn't recognize it then, but my teacher was quietly initiating a social order that would eventually consume our identities. She was planting the seeds of a competition that we wouldn't learn to escape for decades. In that brightly coloured room, filled with blu-sticks and crayon drawings, we were still the same, still equal, completely unaware that the system was already beginning to mold us into deriving our value from the achievements of those around us. We didn't know that the 'Gold Star' was the first lesson in learning that our worth was no longer something we possessed within ourselves, but something we calculated by measuring the distance between our success and our peers.
Primary school- taking root
By primary school, the system was no longer hidden; it was deliberate, structured.
In those early years, my curiosity was an open door. I was a child who lived in the "why," seeing the world not as a set of rules, but as a vast, shimmering horizon of possibility. I loved the way a new fact felt like a secret I had just uncovered, and I would spend hours lost in the library, chasing my own wonder through the pages of books. To me, finding my place didn’t mean finding my rank; it meant standing at the edge of that horizon and realizing I was part of something infinite. I felt whole simply because I was curious. I didn't feel the need to be "better" than anyone else; I was content to stand fully in who I was, a small girl with a library card and an infinite appetite for knowledge. My roots were touching the earth, and I was growing toward my own light.
But as the years went on, that horizon began to shrink. I didn't realize it then, but I was becoming a loose thread in someone else’s design, being pulled away from my own wonder and woven into a pattern of measurement I never asked for.
I still remember the day we were sorted into our reading groups. My heart pounded as my teacher called out our names. One by one. Each of us assigned a colour that everyone understood, but no one said aloud.
“Yellow group” she said.
At the time, I didn't fully grasp why these random colours mattered to everyone else, and yet I felt my intrinsic curiosity, the pure, innocent hunger to just know, began to wither. I felt an invisible wall grow, brick by invisible brick. I felt a subtle drop in my chest, realizing my friends were in green: the 'smart' group. Suddenly, I was no longer their equal, but someone below them, defined by a label I didn't choose that dictated the help I received and how I was seen by my teachers, my friends, and eventually, myself. For the first time, I felt that being whole was no longer enough; I had to be perfect to be seen. My joy was traded for a feverish need for validation, and I stopped learning to satisfy my mind and started learning to satisfy the scale."
That quiet jealousy wasn't just about wanting to be in another group. It was the beginning of comparison becoming something I internalised. Something that as I grew up began to obsess over.
And it wasn't just confined to school.
“You should be more like your cousin; she always listens to her mother.”
“Your friend is so much more studious than you.”
At first, these comments were confusing, but over time, the message became a permanent fixture in my mind: who I was alone wasn’t the standard. I was no longer a curious child exploring a world of wonder; I was a data point being measured against a pattern of perfection that I could never quite reach. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I realized that in this "design," my only way to be "enough" was to be "more" than the person next to me. I was no longer the girl standing on a hilltop; I was a shadow searching for light, not the light of discovery, but the flickering light of comparative superiority. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I was no longer finding my place through discovery; I was fighting for my place on a leaderboard.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Boundaries
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: BOUNDARIES I sit on a shelf for years on end, contributing the paper in my pages to the dusty, learned scent…
BOUNDARIES I sit on a shelf for years on end, contributing the paper in my pages to the dusty, learned scent of the Wren Library. I have not seen the light of day for decades, resting on my marble tomb and encased in my papery box where I will forever reside, and I hold vigil over the memory of my author who penned me, the father of Linear Algebra, Augustin-Loius Cauchy.
Tens of thousands of kilometers away, students slave away at their curricular mathematics. Their thoughts are limited to the box of finite width and length demanded of them by their exam boards, and they are warned that journeying outside these confines to the irrelevant, dangerous, and non-examinable unknown would relegate them to the feared midfields of the ranking ladder.
“Shut up and memorise”, they hear, as they bite into the back of their pencils just to feel something.
They would have been taught that when writing mathematical proofs, the convention is to put a little box at the end of them . [box]. The box is supposed to mean completion. No more mess, nothing beyond those four lines. The thought has behaved itself. Yet, the box is empty. Do these poor students truly understand what they have just inscribed, if they are asked to simply repeat, repeat, repeat?
I look within my own pages. At the theorems, remarks, corollaries and proofs found within. Towards the Theorem names for my late author, which many students are forced to memorise for the sake of examination, without examining their own logic or the hidden geometric beauty of the result. I am but a book. A collection of paper, and a mindless thing, yet the children forced to learn by rote are becoming more like me than my dear author.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys title: finding my place
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Kindergarten- The sowing In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember…
Kindergarten- The sowing
In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember the classroom as a seamless collective of sticky fingers and shared crayons; we were a group of four-year-olds who saw the world as a collaborative playground. There were no ranks and no "better thans." We were just a circle of friends, holding hands during carpet time, our identities blurred into one happy, unmeasured mass. To us, every child in that room was an equal companion. In those days, finding my place was as simple as finding a gap in the circle or a warm hand to hold.
I remember the day the stickers were introduced. My teacher smiled warmly as she moved through the room, pressing tiny, shimmering icons onto our shirts. Some were gold, some were silver, and some shirts remained bare. At the time, I didn't feel an intoxicating rush, and I didn't feel superior. We didn't understand the hierarchy yet. We were just happy little kids, still laughing at the same jokes and still sharing the same blue crayons. To us, the stickers were just pretty decorations on our shirts, not labels on our souls.
I remained oblivious to the way we were being indoctrinated. I didn't recognize it then, but my teacher was quietly initiating a social order that would eventually consume our identities. She was planting the seeds of a competition that we wouldn't learn to escape for decades. In that brightly coloured room, filled with blu-sticks and crayon drawings, we were still the same, still equal, completely unaware that the system was already beginning to mold us into deriving our value from the achievements of those around us. We didn't know that the 'Gold Star' was the first lesson in learning that our worth was no longer something we possessed within ourselves, but something we calculated by measuring the distance between our success and our peers.
Primary school- taking root
By primary school, the system was no longer hidden; it was deliberate, structured.
In those early years, my curiosity was an open door. I was a child who lived in the "why," seeing the world not as a set of rules, but as a vast, shimmering horizon of possibility. I loved the way a new fact felt like a secret I had just uncovered, and I would spend hours lost in the library, chasing my own wonder through the pages of books. To me, finding my place didn’t mean finding my rank; it meant standing at the edge of that horizon and realizing I was part of something infinite. I felt whole simply because I was curious. I didn't feel the need to be "better" than anyone else; I was content to stand fully in who I was, a small girl with a library card and an infinite appetite for knowledge. My roots were touching the earth, and I was growing toward my own light.
But as the years went on, that horizon began to shrink. I didn't realize it then, but I was becoming a loose thread in someone else’s design, being pulled away from my own wonder and woven into a pattern of measurement I never asked for.
I still remember the day we were sorted into our reading groups. My heart pounded as my teacher called out our names. One by one. Each of us assigned a colour that everyone understood, but no one said aloud.
“Yellow group” she said.
At the time, I didn't fully grasp why these random colours mattered to everyone else, and yet I felt my intrinsic curiosity; the pure, innocent hunger to just know, began to wither. I felt an invisible wall grow, brick by invisible brick. I felt a subtle drop in my chest, realizing my friends were in green: the 'smart' group. Suddenly, I was no longer their equal, but someone below them, defined by a label I didn't choose that dictated the help I received and how I was seen by my teachers, my friends, and eventually, myself. For the first time, I felt that being whole was no longer enough; I had to be perfect to be seen. My joy was traded for a feverish need for validation, and I stopped learning to satisfy my mind and started learning to satisfy the scale."
That quiet jealousy wasn't just about wanting to be in another group. It was the beginning of comparison becoming something I internalised. Something that as I grew up began to obsess over.
And it wasn't just confined to school.
“You should be more like your cousin; she always listens to her mother.”
“Your friend is so much more studious than you.”
At first, these comments were confusing, but over time, the message became a permanent fixture in my mind: who I was alone wasn’t the standard. I was no longer a curious child exploring a world of wonder; I was a data point being measured against a pattern of perfection that I could never quite reach. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I realized that in this "design," my only way to be "enough" was to be "more" than the person next to me. I was no longer the girl standing on a hilltop; I was a shadow searching for light, not the light of discovery, but the flickering light of comparative superiority. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I was no longer finding my place through discovery; I was fighting for my place on a leaderboard.