Sometimes, you want to stay on the broom and soar above everything.
You never do, of course. You're the sensible one, the one who's lived in this world longer than your friends. Who understands that some times you can't win. And you least of all.
You were never meant to be a winner, were you? Part of a team, perhaps. One among many, blurred in so that there's no longer a "you" to rejoice in triumph. The others were fine with it. Your brothers, identical (but they couldn't have been) whirlwinds. Your sister, happier with a couple others than roving alone. There was someone else who might have understood you, but by the time you were in school, he was gone.
And the moment that you really won, when you saw how everything would fit together, you knew that the only way it could ever work was through your own defeat.
When you were little you dreamed of being the king of the world, not realizing you'd be paralyzed on your throne. You'd live forever, never touched, only beaten. Now, they mock you when you should be too absorbed in the game to hear. You should be ready to sacrifice anything, shrug off pain for the glory of something worth keeping, and yet you're not quite fast enough, strong enough, brave enough.
So you drift down to earth, afterwards, until both feet are on the ground and your dreams are still agonizingly floating above you.