The Pyramids Do Not Care About Your Timeline

The pyramids are older than imagined.

Four thousand five hundred years.

Older than Rome. Older than Greece. Older than writing.

They were already ancient when Cleopatra was born.

Standing before the Great Pyramid. Trying to comprehend.

Could not.

Two million stone blocks. Each one two and a half tons.

Moved without wheels. Without iron. Without the technologies taken for granted.

"How?" asking the guide.

He shrugs. "They had time. They had purpose. They had faith."

Three things do not have.

Going inside the pyramid. Hot. Claustrophobic. The Grand Gallery rises impossibly high.

A group of Japanese tourists photographs everything.

A French couple argues about the acoustics.

An Egyptian guard sleeps in the corner.

Sitting. Trying to imagine the pharaoh's funeral.

Could not.

Four thousand years is too long.

The Sphinx is missing its nose.

Nobody knows why.

Napoleon? Cannons? Vandalism? Time?

The guide has a theory. "Some things are not meant to be understood."

"Like the nose?"

"Like everything."

Watching the sunset from the Giza plateau.

The pyramids turn gold. Then orange. Then shadow.

A camel driver approaches. "You want ride?"

"No, thank you."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

He leaves. Comes back. "Special price."

Smiling. "Another time."

"Okay. Another time."

Both knowing there will not be another time.

Leaving Cairo the next day.

The pyramids remained.

They will remain for four thousand more years.

Long after forgotten.

Long after this airport is dust.

Long after the questions asked are questions nobody asks.

The pyramids do not care about your timeline.

They have their own.

And somehow, that is comforting.

Because some things outlast us.

Some things endure.

Some things wait.

For visitors. For questions. For sunsets.

For four thousand years.

For four thousand more.