I suck at making metaphors

The metaphor for my life, of late,
Is a college grad begrudgingly selling his car.
In this I am the college grad,
The car being sold is the car I'm selling.
I'm selling my car, so it's not a metaphor.
It's something that's happening.
And it sucks. Like this metaphor.

It made more sense to own a car
When childhood was 3 hours away,
On a drive open wide and city-free.
Save for a few spots
Of stop-overs I'd never stop in.
Except in my brain.
Where my mind would encounter
Mind-brain men and brain-mind women.

There they'd offer small town stories and small town snacks,
Which I'd compare to small town fair I'd tried just up the tracks.

These mind-brain men and women would sense something amiss
In my imagined amiss-demeanor,
And asked me where I was going and what I'd seen.

“My Grandma just died.” I'd replied,
Or say, “My family's selling the home.”
Or “A girl I like just asked me out, and I'm leaving the province tomorrow!”

Then the simple folk from my simple mind,
Whom I'd invented on a 3 hour drive over a skip-skip-skipping cd,
would smile, and say nothing.

Then we'd take a time out from weighing worries and woes
To acknowledge just how full of awe it all was.

To acknowledge my one part passive, one part active participation
in such a complex machine of so many-moving.

It's morbid now, to look back then on what didn't actually happen,
And to think how happy I was in light of such tragedy.

And all that while;
while acknowledging my part passive/part active participation
in a complex many-moving-many-parts machine,

I was moving forward to backward.
Backward being forward: back home.

I'd smile and sing over the skips,
I'd laugh off the loss.

In the wake of death-dying and loss-losing
We were choosing to sing.
We laughed and smiled
While, in a little more than a little while:
We'd soon lose sight of this appreciation.
This profound pronunciation.

Appreciation for a life lived, one one finds ones self truly alive in,
Venturing and adventuring in.

Even in the case of those not really living
Especially in their case.
And when we arrive at the end of the drive:
I kill the engine and they die. Like I will, one day.

At the end of a long day, on a long ago rode
To a home, no longer home 3 hours from okay.

On a day long after I sell this little engine that could always get me there;
Wherever there was.
And there might be a metaphor to make about there.
But I suck at making metaphors so I don't care.

The folk-from-my-mind-in-my-car-on-the-road wouldn't care either.
They'd just smile, and say nothing.