An homage, of sorts, to Samuel Becket and the brilliance which is "Waiting for Godot".

                                                           

 

 

 

                                                            The Traveler

 

                                                                        By David Crerand

 

The highway seemed to stretch on endlessly before me. I guess it’s hard to get any sense of a journey’s progress when the person taking the journey has no idea why he is taking it. I had left one place and was on my way to another without any reason for the transplantation I had initiated. Some people say things like “it was just time for a change” or “he needed to broaden his horizons” but I couldn’t hang my hat on any of those reasons. There were no skeletons in closets or broken hearts behind me. There was just an overall feeling of “empty” and a vague desire for some sort of  “fullness”. Maybe being mature means needing something more than that to guide one’s life impacting decisions, I just don’t know.

I had some money. It wasn’t a terribly large amount but it was sufficient to get me to wherever I might end up and get me settled once I arrived wherever that might come to be. I wondered however, how I would ever know when I’d gotten there if I didn’t know where I was going. I quickly realized the pointlessness of this train of thought and simply turned up the radio a little louder. Noise was always a comforting replacement for logic.

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Comments (3)
  • alc on Aug 6, 2009

    I liked it!!!

  • Tanya Wallace on Aug 6, 2009

    A very interesting,imaginative and creative story that was well described.Great work,the concept was excellent!

  • XXElleXX on Sep 17, 2009

    Samuel Beckett – born on Good Friday, April 13, 1906, near Dublin, Ireland. Perhaps the most famous production of Waiting for Godot, however, took place in 1957 when a company of actors from the San Francisco Actor’s Workshop presented the play at the San Quentin penitentiary for an audience of over fourteen hundred convicts. Surprisingly, the production was a great success. The prisoners understood as well as Vladimir and Estragon that life means waiting, killing time and clinging to the hope that relief may be just around the corner. If not today, then perhaps tomorrow. ‘Waiting for Gordot’ is Beckett’s homage to his native Ireland…and the story you have written David..serves well as a homage to Samuel Beckett :-)

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