Stumbling Drunk Down the Road Not Taken

If Robert Frost had been a disillusioned twenty year old, he would have had curly hair, chapped lips, and attachment issues.

As I stumble forward in a new city, on the other side of the country, surrounded by people I’ve known for only months, I cannot help but think of good old Robbie.

Path choosing has never been my forte–I am almost certain I’ll die at a crossroads. They’ll find my body smack in the middle, facing up rather than towards either path.

I’m lost, and I’ve picked up the habit of punishing myself for it. I’ll be standing in a bar and I’ll see a beautiful, smiling girl dancing near me. All at once I will feel completely inadequate. I’ll disappear into myself, where no word, no song can retrieve me. I feel like a fawn–wobbly and meek. A chihuahua–shaking habitually.

If I were a dog, I wouldn’t be a chihuahua, no matter how much I quiver. No, I’d be a pug. They weren’t made for this world, but somehow they’re still here. A biological experiment that hung on only by oversight.

So I suppose whatever path I take, it doesn’t really matter so long as I’m moving. My presence here is mostly an accident, so stumbling forward should feel like a victory, right? So why doesn’t it?

In the bar, when I feel like a fawn-chihuahua hybrid, I wonder if all the people around me speak a language I wasn’t there to learn. I was sick that day–or faking it. They move, speak, act, breathe, eat–differently. So not only am I stumbling forward, but stumbling forward past signs I can’t read. Braille, maybe. Where everybody else can feel the words, I can only use my eyes.

Rob took the hardest damn road and called it valiant, while I’m out here just trying to stay on my feet. I wrote a poem about this feeling. An ode to Mr. Frost, if you will.

It goes like this:

 

Stumbling Drunk Down The Road Not Taken

 

I took the one less–

I took the one–I

Took one. I must’ve taken

One.

I’m wearing walking shoes

I must at least

Be going.

 

The Earth is Braille, and I

Stumble forward over

Hills

Made to give direction

 

In Greek or Latin but

I was never one for classics.

So I’ll trip and tumble,

Stub a toe. Fall.

 

Feet sore lips dry the

Altitude thins me.

I took the worst one, certainly.

I haven’t seen someone

In ages.

 

I fall asleep between

The words–

They hold me in their palms.

Maybe this would be enough. To lie back.

It’s nice here with eyes shut–I

Hardly remember falling.

 

But the Earth, too loud

For sleep, shakes and I am up

On knobby knees, asking

Myself–there is no one else–

Why I haven’t moved

At all.

 

 

I love you, dear reader. You’re the cutest pug I know.