My Song Too

Not greater than and not less than and not the same. It doesn't happen in math, but it's a foundational theorem of humanities.

Sometimes we mutter to ourselves — or perhaps we are talking to life itself — people like us, vocalizing as a form of being. Could it be that, for some of us, thought exists only as dialogue, internal or external. We power the spheres, reasserting the persistence of reality as though it were a fragile collection of spinning plates. "To think is to talk." Some people would say we are distant or quiet, but for us the conversation never ends. I live in words and, most days, I live well.

It is said that we hide ourselves, protect ourselves, set up barriers and walls to keep our unpresentable selves hidden. Sometimes I feel as though my armor is threadbare, pervious and pregnable. I often find myself at the verge of tears, driven close to exposure as helplessly silly by the most random of things. In a move the other day I beheld a group of Whos living on a speck crying out to the invisible giants that controlled the fate of their world, "We are here! We are here! We are here!" Real pangs, giant sweeping gusts of emotion howling through the chasm of my soul almost brought me to tears, though I fought them back.

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.