[596] I haven't figured out the title, but please critique my draft for my personal essay!!!!

Hi, this is my first proper personal essay I'm going to submit for my English class!!! To clarify, I'm only in high school, and I would like to know what I can improve on as a writer since I'm only beginning. Also, I'm NOT FINISHED!!!! I just want to see if I'm going in the right direction with my first draft!!! The assignment requires the essay to be whatever we want, and it has to be between 700 and 1000 words. It's only 500 words. Also, I'm stuck. I'm not sure what to add next.

(I apologize for how corny some parts are.)

Topic: Something on childhood, nosotolgia, derealization, depersonalization, dreamscape, surrealism, odd memory.

Style: Intentionally fractured narrative

Head exploding, black hole inducing, super deep and very niche, amazing title that will make you cry

When I was five years old, I experienced a preview of death. A static TV screen where my eyes used to be, and where my soul drifted and hummed in the background. Most of us experience this and call it “gaining consciousness”; strangely, it recurs for me even to this day. It would relapse when I'm not expecting, following me when happy, following me when sad, following me when I can’t see or sleep, so I stare at the ceiling and start to float. 

I don’t remember when, but it was still at five years old. I found shiny glass pebbles, buried in the farthest part of the backyard. My purple nightgown, with Sofia the First, faded into the center, along with a hand shovel wedged between the pale wooden hands. The sky slowly bled into the trees as the earth began to speak. I thought plants could speak, but today I'm not sure why I believed that. The refrigerator buzzed as I began my descent through the back door and faded into the picture. Even when outside, the mechanical hum followed me through the trees. 

I haven’t been the same for a long time; I don't connect with what I was five months ago.  I watch. My eyes are sore from typing. My hands aren't connected; they are muddled among the keyboard keys as I type this. Frame by frame, they don't feel like anything. 

I fell to my knees and began to dig. I don't remember my knees. I believe that when they fell, they sank into the ground; they thinned out until they matched the dirt under me. While digging, my hands looked far away, as if they were seeping into the dirt. The sun began to shine, yet my eyes filtered it through a haze that tainted the surroundings, and everything slowly became vague. But I dug. Until I found a little cove of galaxies. I forgot to bring a bucket. I pulled at my nightgown to form a make-shift bowl or pouch. I piled every single beryl star that I could carry, and then I flickered back inside. I was so small that I needed a chair for the sink. I've always been the tall girl ever since I was nine. It’s hard to remember a time I wasn't tall, maybe that's why my memory is so muddy. 

I’m tired. I'm not sure when I started to get exhausted. Still typing, trying to remember where it started. As the albatross grew heavier, familiar voices became muffled hums, and colors bled past their borders. I listen. The AC’s muffled hums into the darkness, the TV talking to my parents, telling them to let go of the day. 

I pulled my make-shift skirt-pouch over the large farmhouse sink for the luminous moon-gems to rattle along the thin metal surface. Plink! Plink! Plink! My parents were surely woken by now from the sun's gaze, leaving a fuzzy rainbow through the kitchen glass, soaking through the chalky countertop. My nightgown was terribly stained, scorched with brown blurs all over Princess Sofia; if she wasn't faded enough, she was now surely stained. I turned on the tap as it buckled into place, rushing down to crash with the stars. My eyes weren't fully clicked into frame; they sat unadjusted and continued to blur the surroundings. The refrigerator still buzzed, and the sky continued to open.

Here is my critique! (It's in the Google doc):

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1t7mo3p/1392_the_sun_doesnt_speak/