Nondescript

He knew the most she could do is to stop and stare.

Take in everything his senses could-- That was the most. He could never hold a paintbrush and delicately draw out works of art, works that would make people breathless. He could never hold a pen and write out words coming from the heart, stories that would make people cry or laugh. He could never disturb their emotions and make it into such a tornado like some people could. He could never dance out cheoreographed steps to such accuracy and poise that would garner rave reviews and receive a standing ovation. He could never play the piano -- He never learned.

He could never learn to love, what is it anyway? A rare form of feeling? One day, he thinks. One day.

His report book was never a stellar one. He probably wasted more red ink than any other student could, and that doesn't have a good connotation. He wasn't even good in sports. His tennis is hopeless. He could never have the determination to build up his stamina. It was too tiring. He could never execute world-class moves even though he could in his head.

He imagined it too often how is it like to be a world-class player, a top-notch dancer, a gifted artist, a talent treasured by many. Oh boy, did he imagine.

Some people are born to rise above the rest. Some people are born extraordinary.

Some people are mediocre, like the poor fictional character named Jim. (Which appeared in my head when I'm feeling like I could use a couple of winks. It does bear an uncanny resemblance to myself anyway)

But at least he could dream.