This story is completely true, and we all have one.
There is a band that runs all around us - a ring of land on the horizon. You can try, but no star or map will get you there. However, if you find yourself in the middle of the ocean or lose yourself on top of a building, you may spy a line nestled between the earth and sky. Some say it is Shangri-La. Others call it the Island of Orange-Peel Birds. Its true name is only pronounceable with the soft pad of a pilgrim's shoe. There, the ground is made of canvas, all the trees sing off-key, the rocks can speak, lakes can see and cardboard boxes are yours for free. Of course, you will have to pay a shipping fee.
Forty dervishes walk in place along the isle's shore; the world turns to meet their step. Forty winds emanate from their robes, painted with the scent of water. Forty songs cascade from their mouths and, though you won't believe me, they sing the opposite of what you hear.
One day, the leader of the Forty said to thirty-nine, "It's time we stopped this walking in place. My legs are tired and my thirst is great, I cannot stand this endless trudging just to make the world turn. It's rest I want, and rest I'll get, and the rest of you can go suck it!"
And so he left, and the world slowed down by a fraction too small for anyone to notice.
For many moons this continued - one by one the Forty departed, until the soul remaining was the only one upon that circadian shore. It was all he could do to keep walking, for, as we all know, the world is too heavy for one person to turn.
"The sun has been up for months," said the Lone Dervish, "The months have turned to years, and the years go on and on as if time itself has stopped. My song sounds hollow without the rest of them. The wind that used to be so sweet is now a dry, cracked parody of what once was. Perhaps I'll rest awhile upon this rock. Yes, for just a moment. No one will mind. No one will care. They never have or ever will."
A sigh escaped his lips as he sat. His shrivelled, calloused toes curled in ecstasy and soon he was dreaming. The moment slowly lasted for a day. The day seemed like a month. The month turned to a year. And, the year went on and on as if time itself had stopped. Nobody noticed, for half the world was asleep and the rest were too busy to care.
At night, downtown Chicago is not dissimilar to a crowded day on the Mongolian Steppes. An umbrella of slate-colored exhalation hovers over the city. A damp chill clings to the spaces between buildings and the sewers belch steam like a dragon after a cold drink. Empty streets, dark windows and the occasional echo of a homeless person's wild ramblings. A certain magic inhabits these towering canyons of steel and glass - a cold, quiet magnitude that one usually finds alone in the empty spaces of a vacant concert hall. It was night in Chicago, and it wouldn't be day until the world turned again.
Apart from random grunts and the occasional burp that escaped Kyle's throat, it was deafeningly silent. He had stumbled around the city for hours (but it seemed like days, and those seemed like years, etc.). A well-worn, ancient-looking bass was strapped to his back and he clutched a bottle of mezcal in his hand. By now, he was indescribably drunk, and had a dim awareness that the city was completely empty. Along with the bottle he "borrowed" from an abandoned convenience store, he had taken a bag of Cheetos and half a gallon of chocolate milk. So, not only was he drunker than a sailor on New Year's Eve, he had indigestion and was covered with a fine orange coating of cheese dust. Many words have been used to describe many people over the centuries. But, never were they more apt than now. In a haze of nausea and disorientation, Kyle collapsed and, for a moment before his head hit the pavement, he gained enlightenment and promptly lost it.
Slowly, Kyle opened his eyes. Above him, the sky had changed to a strange violet hue. Beneath, the cold asphalt had become soft, ivory-colored sand. Waves could be heard crashing gently in the distance. The thought that he had gone to heaven occurred to him, but was quickly dispelled by a familiar voice.
"Kyle!" it called, "is that really you? Lord, am I glad to see you. Where in hell are we?"
And thusly went going just so does the story go, and so it will tomorrow. More to come...
