Thursday, November 20, 2008

The Road Not Taken

I increasingly find myself not able to take a decision. Not that I was ever able to do so, but lately this wonderful inability has become a problem. Well, not a real problem. My life goes on smoothly even if I decide that I can't be asked and I'll just go on ignoring that I should have been making important decision. (sounds like a joke, I decide not to the decide.. mmm..) 
Robert Frost keeps up the illusion that my choices have a poetic dimension. But again, they usually involve choosing stuff like "shall I go to a play or to my friend's birthday party?" It's perfectly clear to me which one would be the road less travelled by, but it is at least as clear that if I take it that decision is not gonna make any difference. 
So now, I have to road diverging in front of me.. the less travelled by and the easy one. My contorted and masochist mind would say go straight for the less travelled by and the world can fuck off.. while my kanckered body and lazy heart would rather go for an easy peasy walk, perhaps even with the company of someone to talk to... 
Dilemma. 


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;        5
 
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,        10
 
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.        15
 
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


"I exercise the right not to walk."

1 comment:

Esme said...

There's a passage in the Bell Jar about a fruit tree spread out in front of her, with each pear being a ripe and as delicious as the next. She is so paralised by fear that she'll choose the wrong one, until they all blacken and rot. The poem reminded me of it.