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;
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,
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.
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.
If any poem can be said to have impacted my life it is this one. I suppose if you look at it from a particular manner the poem even describes my life in an abstract way.I did not so much choose the less traveled road as it chose me by virtue (if one can call being relegated to the fringes of society from birth a virtue) a the circumstances of my birth.Fortunately for most people it will be a long time before (if indeed it ever happens to them at all) before they have to suffer the indignity of people treating them as though they are minor children incapable of making their own decisions. Let me tell you feeling like you could disappear and nobody would notice is definitely depressing by anyone’s standards though that particular fear has been easier to suppress lately. Constantly getting used to strangers invading your personal space out of necessity is very annoying. The only thing more frustrating than that is finally getting used to someone’s presence and then watching them leave because of some bureaucratic bullshit that no one even ask your opinion on in the first place. Though this particular path has brought me some of my most meaningful attachments I would be hard-pressed to say that I wish this on anyone, even my worst enemy. This particular road is uneven and tiresome, trust me.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
If the first poem is representative of everything that has led up to the point this Frost work comes the closest to speaking my current mind. Over the past year I have made several promises to myself and others which I’m determined to keep no matter what. It always seems that the year we actually decided to keep the resolution make roadblocks and obstacles make themselves known.It would be far easier to let myself get sidetracked by the malaise the woods represent, to expect that I’ll probably never do anything truly extraordinary or noteworthy with my life, to be like the man’ s horse who wants nothing more out of life than a warm bed and food in his stomach. I will admit to having entertained these thoughts on more than one occasion but after a few minutes I give myself a good shake and I remember why it even in the brief moments when I may wish to, I can’t give up, because I do indeed have promises to keep an untold miles to go before I sleep for if I rest now, if I close my eyes in this beautifully complacent land of softly falling snow my dream will die and I will follow them in short order, because humans cannot survive without dreams, without them they can only hope to subsist.