Why must I apply myself to what I am good at? Must I love it? Must it be the focus of my every thought? Apparently I must. I understand I proved myself as talented, if we must refer to this curse in that manner, but have you bothered to ask if I enjoy this success? I almost feel that this is about you. You are feeding off of what I provide, but don’t bring into account what matters to me.

I’ve managed to keep up my stamina for this long. No one else has given me much of a reason to, but I still kept my head up, or better yet, at half mast. This is what the others love. They would categorize themselves into this assembly. I, for one, would not. I’m a musician, a writer, a human. I don’t fit this mold that the others have carved themselves. This is what bothers them. This group of eight should be uniform. Eight brothers, all alike. I am the radical. The adopted Asian child with a post-modern name to this family. Though I may be Caucasian, and my name may not be that unique, I will still never be one of you.

My legs gave out a while ago, but I am still forced to my feet. I am running in circles again.