Wr1tt3n0ne

Bunches and bunches
2018-03-01 22:58:25 (UTC)

The Divergence of Me

The Road Not Taken
BY ROBERT FROST
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.

I adore Frost.

Many years ago I read a book derived from this poem in the self-help section of my library aptly titled The Road Less Traveled: A New Psychology of Love, Traditional Values and Spiritual Growth by M. Scott Peck. I cannot recite even a line of it, but I still recall that feeling of understanding that my current life was just a tiny slice of my actual, long life. It did not convey hope so much as it conveyed possibility and intention. Up until that point, my life had been only about survival. It was a hardscrabble life and at each closing of my eyes, I wondered, morbidly, if it would prove to be my last. I had come to understand that past for me was a vastly different thing than for others.

It was when I began to tell stories of my past rooted, not in reality, but rather in dream and imagination. I suppose I must have always done so, but without knowing it. My life was so gray, that I often mistook my waking for dreaming and vice versa. So common was it , I feared it might lead to my actual death. You see I fly in my dreams and that could be terminal in real life. I devised ways of checking my wakefulness both in dreams and in life. My mind has never been totally one place and not another. As an adult, I have tried mightily to separate my sleeping and waking so no one would know for certain if I fail to differentiate.

Considering how much of my inner life and comprehension, self -awareness stem directly from my dreaming, I often wonder what the fuss is about if I retell a dream versus an actual experience. Both have shaped me profoundly and neither based on their actuality, but rather on their lasting effects. I must have spent hours, days even in lines here and there, but I have only a few recollections of actually standing in a line. The DMV, Disneyland, and few other spots. But I must stand in line almost daily at the bank, the market, etc.., but I have only the most cursory, yeah that must've happened experience of it.

My dreams are not easy places to be. I have more vivid dreams, recurring dreams, second and further generations of dreams, that have days, maybe months or years of backstory and ones best left in the confines of my id, not to be experienced by the ego. I have had nightmares that shake me in my boots, that leave me inarticulate and largely speechless. They are the sound a scream makes in your mind. Much of my real life pales in comparison to them.

One of my ways of understanding what was really occurring from what was being dreamt was to follow the narrative and see if it made sense to me. For many years I would stop in both places and query myself, did this make sense? And for many years, because my life was so drab, so few bright colors, it was easy to say that anything nonsensical or colorful was dreamscape and all the rest was real. But as I approached my teen years, my dreams became predictable and my life became confused. Then I resorted to trying to read a sign or newspaper, anything because I was aware that reading in a dream was often not possible. And then I relied on that, until I learned to read in my dreams.

My young adult years were a constant struggle to separate real from fictional. I suffered from basically unchecked insomnia. Having no roommates and my own space meant I could drag my nights into days and vice versa. I would occasionally find myself waking places I did not recall going. I often woke on the city bus, usually right on time for my stop. To combat this I tried not to sit when boarding, but somehow I would wind up waking up there all the same. For a bit I worked a night job and would find myself there, having literally wandered off from my post and wonder if I did so at my boss' behest or not.

My friends always chuckled at my retelling and rewriting of our conversations and events together. I often mistook one for the other. I think they largely thought me as writerly and quaint in my old-timey forgetfulness. But it wasn't exactly forgetfulness. Truthfully, I have a unique mind in that I don't often parse the actual from the not. When my memories reach my past they get all jumbled together and reworked in order of importance to me, not in order of reality.

I once told that guy I recalled only his arm around my waist, gazing out at night from some high perch, perhaps near the ocean in a dream with him. He told me in no uncertain terms the exact location and asked if I could not recall driving there with him on a date. I could not and I cannot. I wonder what difference would it make if I could? Have I not refined my experience down to the truly meaningful pieces? I don't count it any more important since apparently it actually happened than if I merely dreamed it. It remains a cherished memory in either case. For example, I know we must have had dozens of dates, but clearly I can only recall maybe six total, and each those are mere clips. Do other people actually recall each moment?

One of my favorite maxims is "If your brain is a shot glass and a class is a pitcher, then you are bound to spill some." If you're curious, that got me an Ivy-league education on full scholarship, not too shabby. Naturally, I had to get enough sleep to pass. For those mired in the world, I wonder why and for those lost in their dreams I wonder why, for me it is and always will be the place where those two things meet, it is where I diverge, right on!




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