Last week, the Huffington Post published a story about a mystery poem. Eric Nuzum had been carrying around a poem for years, not knowing who wrote it or what it meant. From the article:
Like many kids, I was a misfit: a perfect storm of teen angst, loneliness, and depression. I was always stuck on the outside looking in. A tsunami of dork. Like a lot kids in my situation, I dealt with it by diluting myself with pot, cheap beer, and even cheaper pharmaceuticals--anything to shore up some distance between my skin and my soul--between myself and the world around me that I didn't understand or feel any connection to.
As my young life fell apart, Laura, my best friend at the time, stepped in to help me figure out how to put it back together. While my life bottomed out, with no clear idea if it would ever rise back up, she stuck with me, believed in me, and loved me. We spent our nights endlessly driving nowhere, exploring abandoned buildings while dreaming about living in them someday, exchanging mix tapes with secret coded messages in the songs we selected, and mostly, just talking about whatever happened to float in and out of our heads.
One morning she showed up unannounced at my house and asked if we could go for a walk. We ended up lazily dangling from swings in a park up the street, just talking, when she reached in her pocket and handed me the Mystery Poem. She refused to tell me what it was, who wrote it, or why she wanted to give it to me. "It's a gift from me to you," was all she would say. "Eventually you'll figure it out." She almost seemed gleeful as I struggled to understand. Then she left for college. Then she was hit by a car. Then she was dead.
Sorry to leave on such a mysterious note, but jump over to the article and find out for yourself!