There once was a farmer who never much thought of leaving his land. He was comfortable where he was, and comfortable with only ever being merely comfortable.
He had no close friends, although a few people at the farmer’s market knew who he was.
“Yes, I know who he is,” one of them might have said, although none of them ever did. None of them were ever asked.
One night, as he was sitting down alone to dinner, he heard a loud party happening out in his field. Music, conversation, laughter. More confused than annoyed, he went out to see who could have set up a party in his remote field.
But there was no one there.
Instead, the party now sounded as though it were coming from his house. He ran back in, now afraid he was dealing with intruders.
But there was no one there.
The sound of the party was again coming from outside. Not from his fields, but from the empty stretch of road that led from nowhere much to his little farm (which was also nowhere much). He went out to the road.
But there was nothing.
The sound of the party was now just over a gentle slope in the road. He followed it.
Nothing.
Then it was just around the corner. Then, where those trees covered the road in shadow. He followed and followed the sound, each time finding that he was almost but not quite to its source.
And he never came back to his farm again.
“I have no idea what happened to him,” one of the folks at the Farmer’s Market might have said, although none of them ever did. None of them were ever asked.
