Demon of idealism

In the following scenario, let us define B as a friend from French class.  French is one of those things that I frequently accuse of being meaningless (or at least pointless), confusing, and often painful (see also literature, art, philosophy, psychology, and sometimes even music).  Which is obviously why I keep trying to learn and do it.

B also did not get to hear the bulk of this conversation, because I thought of it later.  He started it, though.

E: Just because I think it's meaningelss and confusing doesn't mean I won't work to be good at it.

B: A remarkably effective philosophy for surviving and thriving in college.

E: There's this pesky idelaism demon, though, that objects to my doing anything without meaning it.  Makes for a lot of rationalizing, existential crises, and internal pep talks.  Though I often wonder whether everyone doesn't experience life in much the same way?

How is your Highness getting on with your Highness's roller-skating?

You know what's really frustrating?

Knowing that someone is in pain while you are in pain yourself.
Hearing the other's cries and wondering if he catches the echoes of your own.
Wanting to console and be consoled, but being held in check
by the (not unwarranted) fear that breaking the silence
will harm more than it will heal.

A horse (I mean, a poem) with no name

The title of this post has little or nothing to do with the upcoming poem, but I rather like the song by America. Seelenluft also did a nice cover of it in 2007, if you're into electronica. I am, apparently.

The Road Not Taken

He came upon me suddenly, and we both paused
that morning in the yellow wood. Perplexed, he faltered
between me and the other road he'd been traveling.
(Until that moment, I didn't even know we converged, she and I.)

For a heartbeat in eternity, he leaned into me—
watching dust motes swim in the sunlight,
hearing birdsong flutter among my branches,
even putting one foot forward on my rustling, leafy pavement—
then he drew back. I could hardly blame him;
I didn't know where I would lead him
any better than he—it's different with every traveler.

Yet I wanted so to see where we might go together;
my grasses would bloom beneath his gentle step.
But a path cannot draw any traveler on
against his will. I could only beckon
with birdsong and sunlight dancing with shadow
while he swayed at our convergence.

The yellow leaves trembled. A single maple wing
spiraled to the ground as he sighed
and started again down the other path.

And still I ache with the absence
of his gentle tread. My grasses may wilt with wondering,
If he had chosen differently—? but, no.

Two roads converged in a wood, she and I,
And he took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

EYN August 2011