Lewis Carroll,
The numbers were driving him insane.

George Orwell,
His family didn't know yet.

Mark Twain,
A childhood on the rivers.

A pseudonym is a weapon like no other.

"Do you ever wonder where these voices came from?"

I closed my eyes and for a moment, I thought I was talking to someone else…

“Yes, I am them. They were the identities formed within my insecurities. A life I wished that I was once in; the shoes of someone I wanted to be… And to that, I have made you exist, but not living…"

There is an object lying on my desk
Something so simple yet so picturesque
Whose value tends to be forgotten
With a purpose wasted over and over again

With the help of tools, it's radiance flows
With a bit of aid, it will surely glow
Often, the results are better than we know
But if left untouched, it would be hollow

An empty space, a blank canvas
Utilized properly, it would surely surpass
All the expectations and the doubts
Grab it now  and let your identity sprout

May it be an artwork or literary
A musical score or a piece of origami
A sheet of paper, no matter how small
Can make a difference for us all

Something so thin and so plain
Offers numerous experiences we can attain
Take advantage of the entire blank space
Let us put our imaginations in replace

They were children tasting sugar
For the first time
Without all the artificial layers
The raw sweetness
Making them gasp and shiver
Anticipating for more
Turning them into wild animals
Ravaging its meal
Showing their true identities
Buried in these colors