A step toward true north and a shake toward our Atlantic Ocean leads me where I need to go. Each breath flows away from my lips carried upon the wind, I know there is no way to catch the frozen moisture, though I chase it.

I find my hands curled up inside of the cuffs of my sleeves and my leggins constantly and awkwardly pulled toward my ankles. My feet slide into the shoes I've been caught in for 4 years now.

It's rusty but it gets me where I need to go. The gears grab hold of my knitted leg warmers every now and again. We make the most of what we've got. What we've got is a 12 speed and a somewhat open road.

Every uphill climb reminds me of the weight that I carry in my bookbag, three square objects of specified knowledge. I ruch and sling my brown, single-strapped bag behind my back.

Life is in flux. It can never hit full capacity, nor ever will it. Wind hitting skin, fingers cracking in the cold, a nose so red it may stop traffic. Veins fill enough to exhibit blue lines through our gallery of skin.

Screeching brakes cause steps to vere right while heads turn left. "Thank you, excuse me."

Her back hurts, she sits up keeping one hand on the yellow curvature. Boston has never felt better, Pennsylvania absorbs the passion. A road is not but a well traveled path. Defiance, Ohio says "distance is just a number on a dashboard," and blocks are only signs of dedication.

We've never known how far the future is and never felt how close our past threatens our steps until our future hits us flat in the face and our past slips around our feet and trips us.

Too many options. Too many opinions. Too many exhausted sentences. Too often are these options turned into trickery and opinions not honest. The sentences we hear are not statements with meaning but weak diction said loudly enough to catch our attention.

I had an honest conversation last month. I can't recall having one since.