IN paths untrodden,
In the growth by margins of pond-waters,
Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,
From all the standards hitherto publish’d—from the pleasures, profits, eruditions, conformities,
Which too long I was offering to feed my soul;
Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish’d—clear to me that my Soul,
That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices most in comrades;
Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,
Tallying and talk’d to here by tongues aromatic,
No longer abash’d—for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere,
Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest,
Resolv’d to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,
Projecting them along that substantial life,
Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,
Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my forty-first year,
I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men,
To tell the secret of my nights and days,
To celebrate the need of comrades.
In the growth by margins of pond-waters,
Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,
From all the standards hitherto publish’d—from the pleasures, profits, eruditions, conformities,
Which too long I was offering to feed my soul;
Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish’d—clear to me that my Soul,
That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices most in comrades;
Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,
Tallying and talk’d to here by tongues aromatic,
No longer abash’d—for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere,
Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest,
Resolv’d to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,
Projecting them along that substantial life,
Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,
Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my forty-first year,
I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men,
To tell the secret of my nights and days,
To celebrate the need of comrades.
Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
I have always enjoyed Whitman, and as one reads in between the words forming the prose within his verse, one can’t help but to wonder what he was feeling and thinking at the exact moment when he wrote these words dancing full of toil and emotions.
It has been a while since I have seek the depths upon myself looking inside me, wondering about the perjury of life and the tribulations of living such a fib hoping for a day when it all may end. Alas one has no say. No say in his own play, as he may claim to possess the stage but the audience is one that does not care for neither an encore nor reverberating tall tales.
We are all merely selfish beings, born as such and shall die as such. Life is all but one convoluted mess of survival.
This realization may strike some as a bogus belief of deprivation and others as a small bump in the night, another truth passing by noticed by few, ignored by most. Well, as we sail through this precarious sea of life; with our soul embodied in this vessel of flesh and bones, I wonder if we actually realize that ultimately we are beings of equals.
Each seeking and searching for his or her own place, none realizing that it was never a journey about the destination – rather one that perpetuates itself until one expires. The only hope we have is to be our best, for ourselves and those that rides the journey along with us.
Am I being too perplexing? Am I in my own world, perhaps you may say? Well, maybe I am. Maybe I am lost in myself. Lost in the belief that there isn’t much to call upon beyond the shores of actualization. Maybe I am hoping for hope.
So be it, as it is much better to realize that catharsis, fate, fortune, providence, and destiny is not mine to question. It is mine to accept.
It has been a while since I have seek the depths upon myself looking inside me, wondering about the perjury of life and the tribulations of living such a fib hoping for a day when it all may end. Alas one has no say. No say in his own play, as he may claim to possess the stage but the audience is one that does not care for neither an encore nor reverberating tall tales.
We are all merely selfish beings, born as such and shall die as such. Life is all but one convoluted mess of survival.
This realization may strike some as a bogus belief of deprivation and others as a small bump in the night, another truth passing by noticed by few, ignored by most. Well, as we sail through this precarious sea of life; with our soul embodied in this vessel of flesh and bones, I wonder if we actually realize that ultimately we are beings of equals.
Each seeking and searching for his or her own place, none realizing that it was never a journey about the destination – rather one that perpetuates itself until one expires. The only hope we have is to be our best, for ourselves and those that rides the journey along with us.
Am I being too perplexing? Am I in my own world, perhaps you may say? Well, maybe I am. Maybe I am lost in myself. Lost in the belief that there isn’t much to call upon beyond the shores of actualization. Maybe I am hoping for hope.
So be it, as it is much better to realize that catharsis, fate, fortune, providence, and destiny is not mine to question. It is mine to accept.
