Have you ever looked at the highway while you drive?

I know what you’re thinking, “Of course I have Mystic Stranger, what a strange and silly question to ask a traveler such as I.”

But, and I ask again, have you ever really looked at the highway while you drive? It is a sad and forlorn place, uninviting, hard to the core, and horribly horribly scarred. Criss-crosses, parallel lines, majestic swoops, abruptly starting and ending in the same moment you recognize them, these scars. Tire tracks. Tire tracks that represent the million things that came before them and spelled out their existence.

Late to work, gotta hurry, so tired and bored from this long long commute, mesmerized, mesmerized, wait no! *screeeeech* whew!
Pass me, I’ll pass you. Pass you, you’ll pass me. We’ll see! rev*screeech*crush* shhhh
Is he coming over? He better not, there’s no room. I think he’s coming over. Doesn’t he see us? I don’t think so. Oh shit! *screee*rev*screeee*honk*revvvvv* Bastard.

So many stories are smeared on that pavement, the majority ending badly when represented by rubber. Some, most in fact as I watch, end abruptly in the wall. You wonder what could have been there to the right that would make them yearn so desperately for the unforgiving left. Many stay within the lanes, never drifting (though some do) meaning a short stop to get another look at that brunette behind…or less of one of that blonde in front. Few, but some, describe huge swirling arcs, irreverent of lanes, making beautiful curlicues that belie the ugliness that soon followed after.

While I drive, I see each of the creator’s in my minds eye, the awful sound of the probably echoing in my head; somehow muted by my recreation, as it occurs in the same voice as my created peel-outs as a young boy: eeerrRRRRPPP!!!!. I wonder where these scars came from.

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