The weight on my chest.

The responsibility of this all is incredible.
That split second when your heart beats in slow motion,
And you're looking out the window as your pupils dialate
Trying to take in everything you've just taught yourself.
And you feel the panes shaking, but they're only sitting still
Staring back at you waiting for you to step forward.
Your ears to that funny click, where everything suddenly becomes an E flat
That sounds loudly then decrescendos into the same thing
You've been listening to your whole life.
And you never knew it was an E flat.

So much time knowing the same thing
Over and over and over.
But the smallest things drop hints that you most likely sweep up.
And they're lost in the window, they hide in the stairway.
They hang in the curtains and they sleep in your hat.
They dangle from your wrists and neck.
They drip ink softly into your skin.
They whisper in your ear during the lulls in a symphony.
They burrow in the bristles of a fan.
They jump out of alleyways, and they peer out of others' eyes.
Waving at you as you walk by.

And it may be 20 years before you notice.
It might be 50 before you wave back.
But it's always there, it's what creates a part.
The Turks won't take this one.
This won't be your Laocoon.
But the responsibility burns in me.
To carry on the history, the lives, and the hearts.
There will be no replacements.
And there will be no excuses.