I am a boring black car, amidst the vibrant reds. These fiery cars travel at 100 kilometres an hour, swerving from the left to right with the companion of loud booming music, audible to passers-by. I am the dull, moody car that travels at a mere 40 kilometres an hour as I stay put on the left lane, giving way to the convoy of red cars. I am not agitated, I do not envy, nor do I succumb to the pressure of accelerating. I am lying.