Not yet.

My past is a secret I hide within myself
My existence, a sorrow I cannot talk about
My life is full of shadows, out of reach on a high shelf
Chained and locked inside a box, for fear it will get out

I cannot share these secrets, but if you ask, I cannot lie
I wish you not to ever know, the person I was then
The one forever locked away, bound and gagged inside
Don’t ask for more than I can give, I just can’t let you in

At least, not yet…

All of one kind.

The kind of people who come here are all alike. Work junkies, surfing; researching for their next high. Calculus, biology; gibberish mixed within itself. Typing one hundred words a minute and more, this is not their first time. To crack open the condom of knowledge, let the juices fly out. It’s what they lust for; their own brand of aphrodisiac. I wonder how satisfaction can come of such things. To ace a test, win a debate, their own personal strife’s will never be. Broken down by – others – they conclude whispers. Hiding empty bottles, stashing leaves in boxes. Their high is intoxication, sipped, inhaled, awaiting their peak. To challenge one self’s own tolerance, is their greatest goal. Accomplished bit by bit through more than able to handle. This is their life. Crowds of others; intoxication suffocates this room

The kind of people who come here; are all alike.