Hare desperately needed a double espresso, so he and Tortoise—who wanted to celebrate his win with a large green tea—headed across the meadow toward town, the finish line already disappearing in the distance behind them.
Hare: I don’t understand. You? Beating me? It makes no sense. I was born to run—born to win.
Tortoise: And yet here we are… me, the winner.
Hare stopped abruptly, frowning. Tortoise, a wry smile on his face, continued inching toward town.
Tortoise: I doubt you even noticed the sunlight on the grass, or those Swallowtail butterflies gliding over the meadow.
Hare: Oh, please! Don’t start with all that noticing stuff. You got lucky, that’s all. A fluke.
Tortoise: A fluke? Perhaps a slow and predictable one.
A serene confidence radiated from Tortoise, who was clearly savoring his moment in the sun.
Hare: If I hadn’t stopped for a nap, you’d still be halfway back there.
Tortoise paused. A silence settled between the two bickering friends as they looked one another squarely in the eye.
Tortoise: You’re right, Hare. You’d have won at a canter, no question. But if you can’t see the beauty along the way, you’re already half dead.
Hare: It’s always the same with you. Seeing beauty isn’t the be-all and end-all of life. Noticing won’t save me. Speed might, though.
Tortoise: It didn’t today.
Tortoise smiled. Hare, astounded by the smugness, shook his head and tut-tutted in annoyance.
Tortoise: I’m curious, Hare… were you racing me today, or were you racing yourself?
Hare tried to process the question. Tortoise gently shifted the subject.
Tortoise: All I’m saying is… well… these days you’re behaving like everyone else.
Hare: What’s that supposed to mean?
Tortoise: You’re on constant turbo-charge—running around, multitasking, and chasing the next thing. It’s like you’re trying to prove something. Very hare-brained behavior, if you ask me.
Hare: What do you mean, hare-brained? And I don’t recall asking you anything.
Sensing Hare’s defensiveness, Tortoise softened.
Tortoise: I’m worried, honestly. You’re in constant motion, always running away from your own mind. All that speeding around: it’s become an obsession.
Hare: Oh, so now you’re preaching?
Tortoise: Not preaching. Warning.
Hare: If I lived like you, I’d be forgotten.
Tortoise: If you live like this for much longer, Hare, you won’t be forgotten—you’ll be burnt out, and completely singed around the edges.
Hare opened his mouth to retort, but Tortoise was already holding open the café door. Their squabbling trailed in behind them as they sat at a window table overlooking the meadow, the clash of tempos—fast and slow—crackling between them like static.
Hare: I don’t get it—what’s wrong with worshiping speed and living fast?
Tortoise paused a moment, something profound developing beneath his outward, calm expression.
Tortoise: How can you worship something that traps you? Seriously, if you asked anyone whether they would like to slow down, be still more often, and live in the present moment, they’d probably say yes. Yet, that’s not necessarily how they live. Maybe they live as they are told to live, continuously chasing what they were told to expect. If they slow down, they’ll think they’ve failed. Speed is their savior and maybe slowness forces them to face their vulnerabilities.
Hare’s mast-like ears twitched and turned uncontrollably—the caffeine now surging throughout his body.
Hare: I don’t think I know how to live slowly. Speed is all I know. It’s always been the drug that keeps me turning. Stillness is stagnation, which I find unsettling.
Tortoise: Stillness is not stagnation, Hare. Can’t you see it with your own eyes, the faster you go the more of life you miss. Life begins when your speed ends.
Hare gulped down his second double espresso, narrowed his eyes and looked up suspiciously at the clock, as if it owed him time. His gaze turned to Tortoise, who was sipping his green tea. He looks peaceful and unhurried thought Hare. Moments later, Tortoise blinked slowly and turned to Hare.
Tortoise: We do have a choice, you know. I’d sooner live in the moment than get swept off my feet by speed and all the noise that comes with it—fast news, fast judgments, and outrage that sprints ahead of reason. It’s far too much turbulence for me.
Hare: We will never agree, Tortoise.
Tortoise: Perhaps not. But that’s okay, Hare. We each see the world through different tempos: you are the world hurtling forward like a like a shopping trolley with a wonky wheel. I am the world holding on—a trusted light threaded into the rushed, frenzied fabric of things.