Wanderlust. I've always had it. I think it runs in Daddy's family as many relatives have moved from place to place several times, across the country. The kid across the road and I had an elaborate plan to build a raft and float down the river to the Mississippi then to the Gulf of Mexico. (We'd been reading Huckleberry Finn.)
I'm not sure what I had over the weekend, and still have to an extent. If I had had a thousand in cash on me, I'd still be driving. I did do a lot of driving -- four to six hours both days -- but it did nothing to satisfy the urge to get in the truck and drive until I couldn't stay awake, sleep in the truck for a while, and drive again.
I have no destination in mind other than the open road. I don't think any particular destination would satisfy me.
I am unsettled and emotionally lost. Grief and frustration are my companions. Travis Tritt's music helps but doesn't assuage this compulsion to drive.
I'm sitting at my computer writing this. I look out the window and wonder how long I could stand driving in the intermittent rain. Would I turn right or left at an intersection. Would my thoughts be any clearer after two weeks of driving. Would this ache go away.
I don't think anything will satisfy this calling including driving until I can drive no longer.
