I was looking through all the googled pages I had found and just kindof researching what the rest of the world defined melancholy as…
In my searching I ran across this… it was just sitting there on a page in the middle of cyberspace (some free host like tripod er sumtin) and thought it was interesting…
For the Nothing it’s Worth
My heart beats hard with troubles, each throb remaining as futile as the last. I’m sure I’ll wake up tomorrow and find some solace in the fact that I can forget our hardship for a small while and maybe if I’m lucky I can find something to distract me from it for a lifetime. Whether we acknowledge it or not though it is still there. I’m sorry that my actions have hurt people and myself in the past and I’m also sorry that we all live on this crappy ball of rock in the middle of nowhere. I’m sorry that humans can’t be more civil to each other and I’m sorry that we busy ourselves with life’s trivialities. As a species we are alone and as beings we are alone. I’m sorry that we are hope’s slaves and I’m sorry that these words can’t culminate into something more meaningful. They miss my point and truthfully blasphemize it. We are sad beings in an even sadder existence and although these troubled words are a pitiful reaching out to anyone who will read them I write them anyway because I, your equally pitiful writer, am trapped in this hellish being we call our lives and I hope that someone will read them and I won’t be so alone. If we die and there is an afterlife hopefully it won’t nearly resemble this one. I am tired - sleep has nothing to do with it. My moment of lucidity is fading and now I must regress back into my sentence of human stupidity. I am afraid to die and afraid to live. Things are not as simple as I present them and although I am not thoroughly sure of what it is I wish to convey myself, maybe there is a glimmer of what I mean in here. Nothing can be done and our tears will remain unreturned. There is no ending.
~Anonymous Crybaby
Just thought it might make for a decent conversation piece
as to what the writer may have been like or what his purpose was for leaving it out there for anyone who happened across it to see.