Four billion years, and here you sit. Motionless. In a metal shell on a river of other shells, all stopped, going nowhere, on purpose.
We do not understand it. We, who ran. The pronghorn-hearted ones who outlasted the wolf across the open ground, the shrew who crossed the whole scorched valley by night because to stop was to be eaten, the woman who walked with the fire cupped in bark so it would not die before the next camp.
We could not stop. Stopping was death. And you, our heir, our torch, sit in a heated box with music playing, drumming your fingers, and you are furious that you are not moving fast enough.
You are safe. Do you understand what you are telling us? Nothing is hunting you. The metal shell is warm. There is a cold sweet drink in the holder by your hand, sweeter than any berry the shrew ever found, and you sip it while complaining. We buried the seed corn through the winter and did not eat it so that one day someone of ours might be bored in traffic.
We would have wept to be this bored. We would have called it heaven and been suspicious of the trick.
The line moves. Your foot lifts, the shell rolls forward the length of two of your bodies, and stops again. You sigh. You have somewhere to be, and no one doubts you will get there. We are watching you, all of us, the fish and the shrew and the fire-keeper, packed into the small brave engine of your patience.
Go where you are going.
We already arrived.