Autofiction

Life is a road never-ending 'til the car stops running. Every turn is blind, and the dead-ends all lie. Along the route, there's a lineage of body shops and tow trucks, but no one stops. Because here, no one is broken until they say it is so, and every driver draws their own map. In a place of nameless streets, it doesn't matter how they align. 

Despite the cartography, every car rode parallel, as if direction were mere folly. It was, but those without a roadmap never turned their keys. Worse were those who couldn't break their own rules; those who ran through guardrails with mangled limbs downturned. 

Somehow, the ones who ran out of gas the most traveled the furthest. Every wrong turn, burst tire, or engine fire was etched into their plans at the exact moment they demanded. When their speed slowed and their transmissions stuttered, they admired the sunlight refracted off windshield teardrops from cloudless storms. These kinds believed in where they would go, even if it was nowhere. They couldn't say if they'd ever arrive. But they'd repeat the words they loved to drive.