Acquainted with many, known by none. A trove of secrets carried like cement through the construction of life. So small, so compact yet so heavy. Space so limited though so dominate. I try to lay them down, I can’t. They’re attached and competing with the routine yet apart, a burden that isn’t shared, can’t be shared. Telling is sharing but those that listen will not hear. Will I even exist if I am not known? Can I really be known if I have secrets? So, am I real or just an acquaintance taking up space? I beg to be known, on blended knee, with arms outstretched, my cup held high but life just passes me by...