will I still be remembered under the blare of lights that flood the field, a lone silhouette amongst a hundred others. will I still be able to stand out, a dull worn rag chafing against pastel silks. will I be worth something, even if I try my hardest not to trip and fall in this marathon. will I stand tall like a tree in the middle of a wheat field or will I be fragile as the painting of the moon from its rays upon the glassy canvas of a lake.