June 16, 2016

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,” writes Robert Frost, “And sorry I could not travel both / And be one traveler, long I stood / And looked down one as far as I could.” I first encountered “The Road Not Taken” in an anthology my freshman year of high school. I made a photocopy of the poem and cut it out in the shape of a cloud, and it’s been thumbtacked to every wall of every place I’ve lived in since. This morning, I found myself reciting it on my run, circling the lines, as I always do, when I start to wonder how I got to where I am. Is there any such thing as a choice between two clearly marked paths? Perhaps a more answerable question—at least for the stage I’m in—comes from Amy Sackville in her novel, Orkney: “Why did we come here? Is this far enough?”

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