The scope of his pursuit

He was number nine in a brood of ten, and flair was just not in his style. Amongst so many, it was easy to melt into the background, and on most days he simply did. He was allergic to books, they disagreed with him, but his hands had the adroitness of a circus magician. It was alchemy, how he turned the bent and broken into articles of gold. He could craft beautiful objects from what passed for rubbish to most people.

But the world could not, would not, appreciate his unique gift. To them, there was only one way to measure a person's worth. They placed him on their childish scales and he was found wanting. With only an elementary degree, his chances were thrown to the dogs. How juvenile, but what could one do?

Over the years, their jeers and taunts have seeped into his pores . Diluting, diluted him. He casts his weary gaze towards the shadow of his past and sighs in silent regret. Beaten, he decides to stack up his hopes and dreams. Piled up, he proffers them to his progeny.

And because this is your race. I will read up on Ohm's law and the Big-O notation. I will memorize mathematical theorems, lemmas and proofs like the back of my hand. I will eat algorithms for breakfast. I will become a world-class software engineer, because your race is my race.