The Vanishing Point

I’ve spent the last umpteen hours and days and months

driving towards that pinprick in the horizon,

that neat little microscopic point where everything comes together.

There, that “vanishing point,”

that’s were everything makes sense.

It’s my rainbow and I’m constantly chasing it.

How am I, amateur navigator that I am, to know when I’ve reached the destination?

I need a tour-guide, a wing man.

I push harder on the accelerator and set new records,

I blow past signs and lights and detours and alerts,

my vision so narrowed and tunneled.

I never bothered to read any of them.

And I missed the turnoff.

too busy hurling myself toward some impossible pinprick of a future.

You were my poor, lonely dirt road,

poorly marked but ever-so-promising.

You could have been my super secret detour to happily-ever-after.

And I blindly blew past.

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