One Day on a Bike

I took my borrowed bike from the home at which I was staying in Okayama City, Japan. It was summer and hot. The insects always woke up first, giving off a smooth, undulating chatter like a room full of partygoers all conversing to the rhythm of an unseen conductor.

I didn't know where I wanted to go, only that I wanted to go. I set off clockwise around the circumference a large hill to the east of Korakuen. The air was thick and soft with moisture. Everything was universal and timeless. There were temples and rice fields and homes. There were people out for walks that smiled and nodded. I wanted to be lost.

As I circled the hill, I saw roads leading up the side into neighborhoods tucked up in the trees. I followed one of these roads. At the end was a playground and parking lot next to a path that led into a bamboo forest. It was a sunny day. After parking my bike, I walked down the path.

The light seemed to fade the further I went. "Did a cloud come over?", I thought to myself. The bamboo trees, some of which were collapsed into the path, were thick and grey; old and dry. They creaked loudly as I walked. I felt a sweet gravity pulling me forward, as though I could be sucked down that path forever.

In truth, I am still there among the trees, in the dim light, and the rest of my life since then has only been a dream. As a foolish westerner, I had been warned about fox spirits but paid no heed.