What Am I After All by Walt Whitman
It is past midnight. Hello, new year. Hello, self. I raise my head and look at the sky. I say my name. Once. Twice. Again. I say, here. Here.
What am I, after all? Another speck in the universe. Beginning again. Here.
What Am I After All
What am I, after all, but a child, pleas’d with the sound of my own name? repeating it over and over;
I stand apart to hear—it never tires me.
To you, your name also;
Did you think there was nothing but two or three pronunciations in the sound of your name?
I have been following your blog since this summer. I haven’t showed it to anyone- it’s too special to me. And I just got goosebumps when I saw that you started writing again. Welcome back.