"Hours Continuing Long"

"Hours continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted / Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome and unfrequented spot, seating myself, leaning my face in my hands."

There is nothing more sad and depressing than Whitman at this moment. Someone told me once, "Get over it, spank your inner moppet and get over it." I wish I could shake Whitman - tell him not to waste time wallowing. The problem is too many people feed off the sadness and heavy-heartedness of others. Too many people are enthralled by Whitman's emotional roller-coaster. Sometimes I wonder if he was bi-polar/manic depressive - especially when he goes from high to low, to successful to self-destructive. I want to be inspired by him, but all I feel is the sadness emanating from his soul. He's broken, incomplete, tearing himself into pieces instead of standing united with himself. 1860 seems to be a time of depression for Whitman. These poems that he wrote don't sing with happiness or even that ego that is typical of his earlier poems. He is lost, unsure, and feeling dejected. Gloom. Torment. He needed help, he needed to be put back on the path. 

Some people says that pain can inspire the best writing. Whitman certainly wrote using emotion. The reader can't help but feel the pain and suffering as he sits dejected and alone. Are we sympathetic? I was the first time I read this poem, today, not so much. He says, "I am what I am," but the truth is, do any of us know who we are, what we'll feel tomorrow. We all run on our emotions, some more wildly than others. Whitman feels regret. How do you get rid of regret? I don't know that you can. Life is one day at a time, just as Whitman's poems seem to be one day at a time.