Twelve Minutes.

I keep returning to the scene of the crime. I don't know why. I just do. Something about that place has a certain allure that constantly draws me in every time I have a relapse. In a sense, the peaks and valleys of my life as of late can be drawn and traced to that very place, as varied and ever-changing as the bends and curves of the road itself. Maybe it's the thrill that calls out to me - the sensation of speeding along a winding mountain road, grand homes on either side of me, their inhabitants fast asleep as I come speeding through. My voice is nowhere to be found, my mouth is at a loss for words that are just teetering on the tip of my tongue, so instead, I let my roaring engine do the talking for me. Time and space itself is linked, inexorably, to the gravel and asphalt of this road that I've come to call my sort of "private place", somewhere only I know, and I only hope that as I'm kicking in the clutch, downshifting, hearing the motor rev up to a hearty 8,000 RPM as I brace myself for the next turn, that perhaps somehow, by a stroke of fate or maybe just pure luck, a bolt of lightning will strike my car when I hit 88MPH and I'll be sent back in time and given the chance to correct some of these wrongs, or maybe sent to the future with the opportunity to see what will become all of this.

But that never happens. That's only in the movies, like all of this other stuff I used to long for. And I tell myself to keep going, keep on pushing, never stopping for anything. But I'll tell you this much: it's real hard to navigate through all this when your vision is blurred by the tears you're holding back.