The Past

Hi everyone, John and James are letting me post here as a guest author apparently, so let me introduce myself. You can call me Richard P. Feynman, aka SpicyChutny (Ed: another anonymous person). Whenever I shake myself out of the stupor of everyday life, and try and write something intelligible, I usually try and jot down some quick, short poetry. Most of my topics relate either to astronomy, life, philosophy, or some other random/thoughtful topic.


So the other day I was studying for my history final. Most people would find this to be mind-numbingly boring, but I like it, I find it interesting.

So anyway, I was going through years at a time. From the heights of the Industrial Revolution to the depths of the Great Depression, from the happiness of the Roaring Twenties to the horrors of World War II. I realized that there was so much in the past, an infinite depth of knowledge, of emotion. So many people, so many different thoughts and beliefs. So many experiences. I could almost hear the sound of a gunfire on those distant beaches in France, could almost see Al Capone drive down the street in his Twenties sedan, could almost feel the sand of the Dust Bowl upon my face. I wrote a little poem about my feelings:

The ghosts of the past come to haunt me,
Telling me of times I can't see.
The ancient past weighing me down like lead,
I shake my head, and go to bed.