Semi-Daily Scribbles

Gil had been on the road for the last five days. Of course he had a GPS, a map, and an atlas, so he couldn't use getting lost as an excuse. He told himself a tale of self-discovery and wanderlust that he thought would impress the folks back home, but he knew better than to add too much of a flourish to the truth. Gil was no poet, and his people would agree. It made no sense, but Gil admitted to himself that he couldn't stop. It felt wrong to pull off the highway, except for refueling and unloading. He felt as though he were made the designated road warden by an authority older than the redwoods he passed in the night. Gil also needed to hear the sound. The low rolling, humming thump that lulled the troubled parts of his mind. The comforting slap of treads on tarmac, or the satisfying pop and crunch of loose gravel, assured Gil that the road was still there. It hadn't been turned into a transfer station or retreated into his head as an unfulfilled dream. He was the warden. Gil needed to drive in order to prevent the byways from escaping.