After a wonderful Aha! moment of understanding Robert Frost's poem "The Road Not Taken," this series of alternative endings came to me:
What He Might Have Said
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
1.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I went blank. I froze.
Two roads? in the woods?
A friend told me once about the distinction
between a choice and a decision
only in the moment I couldn’t remember
which
was which.
I couldn’t move.
Darkness fell.
2.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I prayed. I lifted my eyes and prayed for
guidance, for courage, for clarity of vision. And
I heard a voice calling out to me as clear
as day, accompanied by a sudden shaft of sunlight
illuminating the path ordained for me.
I had no doubt.
3.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I was pissed. Where are the f-ing trail markers,
those primary color breadcrumbs nailed to
the trees by those do-goody Eagle Scouts who take
an oath to help other people at all times?
Bullshit. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
4.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I flipped a coin. I figured either road would lead to
adventure, so what the heck?
5.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I turned and walked back to my car.
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