Requiem for the High School Student
I was nothing. Just a speck of minuscule dust floating around the room, just a tiny droplet of water in a pond—contributing to the whole, but still meaningless, utterly insignificant. If all the other matter in the room was to disappear, or all the water but the droplet drained from the pond, then I would be unique, though entirely unchanged. Sometimes, in the dark and quiet solitude of my mind, I would conclude that everyone was nothing, unless seen together as a whole, and then only as a conformed mass devoid of meaning. After all, one does not ruminate on the character of each stroke of paint in a work of art, but rather sees the art for itself, in a whole and complete entity. It was up to each individual person to be unique, and each one more unique than everyone else, though not unique enough to be seen as strange or queer, for though it was true genius which flowed through some of us, there may very well be another student across the world who was equally interested in number theory or the Fibonacci sequence, who was equally intent on success.
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