The stand that never moved

A man has sold newspapers and magazines from the same stand on the same corner in Zagazig for longer than most of his customers have been alive. Same hours, same stack on the left, same puzzle books clipped to the side. He will tell you, with some pride, that he has not changed a thing.

He is right. He is also, in a way he cannot quite feel, the one who has travelled furthest.

The street around him changed. The people who used to stop each morning now read on their phones on the bus. The children who bought comics grew up, and their children want other things. The building behind him sells phone covers now. Measured against all of that, the stand that stayed perfectly still has drifted a long way from where it used to be.

That is the awkward thing about holding still. From the inside it feels like stability. You can point to everything that is exactly where you left it. But where you stand is never only about you. It is about where you are in relation to everyone else, and they did not agree to wait.

Some movement is chosen. Much of it simply happens to you while you hold your ground. Either way, the corner you are on is not the corner it was.

Holding still is allowed. Insisting the world held still with you is the part that costs, because it spends the energy you would need to see where you have actually ended up.