I watch the white lines rush beneath me and I can’t help but wish my mind had guidelines.

I wish bumps in the road could show me where to drive and not let me veer to the left.

I wish someone on the ground was waving their lights at me and telling me where to land, because I’m off course and I’ve lost my direction and I have no landing gear.

Why can’t there be marks on my road to tell me when I’m going the wrong way, and to let me know I need to veer to the right again?

Instead I’m just drifting off the road and the only lights waving back at me are the last I’ll ever know.

And as I look down my tunnel vision, blocking out the warning signs, I can only see the light approaching and my life departing and I know that I won’t land on my feet.

So why can’t my mind have guidelines, white lines to show me the right line to take?

Why can’t I let go of the speed and not take the last white line?

I can’t let go of the drug in my mind that makes the lights blur together.

And my life is a blur of white lines and I don’t know where to go.

Where do you drive when you’re driven insane?

Where do you drive when your mind has no white lines—guidelines?

So I watch the white lines pass through my lifeline and all that I leave behind are a couple of lines set in stone.


They need to make lines that guide your mind so you don’t drive yourself alone.