Ray stood watching waves of slow traffic creep to fill the northernmost parking lot of the massive Church campus. Behind him arose rugged beams and power lines. He smiled at the delightful chatter of birds perched high above as they called cheerfully back and forth to friends hidden at home in sets of matching trees.
How many times had he strolled alone through this same lot toward those same giant glass doors and flock of chirpy, down-dressed greeters in the distance?
Why?
Why was he always here? His appointment with The Psychologist had ended moments earlier. What magnetic force was it that drove him ever back to this same crash of pretty buildings, where droves of souls now thundered in, both in and out of time? Why, if he knew it would make him so sad and angry . . . and maybe crazy?
Service was set to start in 20 minutes. Personnel in bright, fitted shirts emerged from doors to man posts across an unseen grid. These smiled at passersby and thundered commands like, “Enjoy service!” and “Be blessed!” A few spare youths skated off to one side, catching air to and fro atop raised concrete daises beside a sunken patio square.
If he wanted to, Ray found he could squint just right, and it would make the fog look like it had swallowed the whole base of The Church, including most of the bustling swarm of members and visitors arriving. But then the not-a-persons appeared even more trapped beneath . . . like dark victims held in sway, cemented in wispy underworld chambers of torment.
The not-a-persons had clearly changed somehow. It was like seeing a troupe of formerly trifling guards having all snapped to attention at the sense of something coming.
From his great, safe distance, Ray heard himself begin to speak to The Church. He was becoming quite comfortable with the sound of his own voice after having heard it so often in recent dialogues with The Psychologist. But the familiar sound now seemed to be coming from somewhere else completely. He couldn’t link the voice or words to anything in his mind, or even the breath he felt now passing through and out his moving mouth.
“Oh Church!” the voice began, “You take credit for everything good in The City. But that won’t work anymore. Not when everyone starts to see through the fog. Oh Church! You change as The City forms itself. You shift and match appearances, hoping to show your great power. But now there’s no way to hide which really comes first. Oh Church! You copy and use The City’s art to spread your beloved message, even as The City changes. But there’s no more need or way to spin or sell, and… Oh Church! You’re like a teen abandoning parts of yourself unaware in search of an identity that can never really…”
There was a pause before the words continued: “Is the adult a different person from the child? But you’re not actually a person or thing to be at all. You’re part of others’ patterns, not something with its own. The more you shift from a people united around your story to an empire, the more of yourself you leave behind, so the less of an identity you find yourself able to carry or show without the fog. Oh church! Such great and terrible irony! The more you seek to fix yourself a self by what you see, the more of yourself you lose. In this, the fog destroys you as it lifts. But I hope not! That was never what I wanted! How I wish I could…!”
Ray stood in silence for a moment and continued to watch the invisible crowd of poised and ready beings still held separate below. Had they somehow heard his voice’s words?
But he wished he could forget them all . . . just to run straight back to those same stunning buildings as before, and collapse to a chair in the sanctuary with the rest . . . just one amongst millions about to take part onsite and via iuns from afar. Oh to be that simple, broken soul again, completely lost in the crowd.
A sick laugh sounded near in desolate tones of knowing but knowing too late. It was the sound of a world turning after its own end to show Ray it had all really been pretend . . . all just him all along. Silly, stupid Ray, whom no one knew or could know, and who would never let anyone…
But he watched himself trace the maniacal sound to its source without having to try, regretting doing so immediately. He wished it could all just be him. Maybe then this sudden knowing . . . this madness and truth intertwined that would never ever go away . . . could at least be seen forever for what it was.
But it wasn’t.
Ray wished then not to see what he saw coming. Though he fully believed it to be good.
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