Those ancients ate their journeys whole— each mile a tough morsel that took all day to chew, leaving permanent tooth marks on their soles.
Time was a fat, lazy cat then, content to nap in saddlebags, purring through entire seasons while wheels carved slow prayers in dirt.
Geography had gravity. Rivers were locks that opened only for the patient key of boots and breath and breaking dawn.
Now we've taught time to sprint naked through airport terminals, arrive everywhere breathless before we've even left.
We mistake motion for progress, confuse speed with living, while our bodies trail behind like shadows that forgot their owners.
Those old travelers knew: distance was a craftsman who carved them slowly, deliberately, into something new.
Every mile was a small death and resurrection— they emerged from journeys wearing their roads like scars.
We arrive unchanged, untouched by space, our hearts still packed in yesterday's suitcase.