I recently wrote the line “We cannot value anything at a constant level” in the middle of a second draft of a poem I will not provide the title for on my birthday, as it sends the wrong message. In that poem, the tone is somber. Here, I want to celebrate myself, Walt Whitman-style. We are constantly evolving, even if we do or do not acknowledge—or whether we attempt to or not. The power of a piece of language is how it ages. On my 37th birthday, this forces me to think of myself and this day in a way I often do not. Thirty-seven is not a particularly special number, by societal standards. Today, though, I’m quite enthralled by it. Today, I can feel less anxious if I work less and play more. Today, I can be appreciative for this life, this moment around the sun, in the sun.

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