A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

– Walt Whitman

This was once one of my favorite short poems, back when I was in high school and much more of a night owl. Those were the days of sneaking out once the grandparents went to bed, either to meet up with some boy or to just wander aimlessly around my neighborhood.

That was my brand of “carefreeness,” when consequences were tiny and other possibilities so endless.

Now I have the specter of debt constantly hovering over me. I have a future looming menacingly on the horizon, and I don’t want any of it.

Gah. Danny, when are you going to sell your bloody car?!

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