The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

I just re-read The Road Not Taken, and then an exchange between Frost and Edward Thomas, for whom he probably wrote the poem, and realised that I had it wrong all this time.

The poem is a mocking one. There is no difference, except for that which we manufacture. Looking back we tell ourselves that it was our choices that made the difference, that we shaped our destiny. But Frost doesn’t think so. Maybe Frost is wrong, but still it comes as a shock to finally realise that those words in which I have taken great comfort, that have meant much to me, meant in fact quite the opposite.

But then it’s a relief too, to think that it doesn’t really matter which path we take.