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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