a quiet reflection on anxiety, beauty, and the weight we carry even in the most peaceful places.
The beach was empty but not quiet-waves tugging at themselves, gulls shrieking somewhere out of sight.
I sat in the sand and felt nothing lift.
It was beautiful. I was tired of beauty not fixing anything.
Most nights, I ran. I worried what strangers-living in their own lives-thought as they swerved around me.
I hated how self-centred I felt. How critical.
Why did I always feel both in the way and somehow the most visible person in the cobbled streets?
The wheat fields near Bayeux swayed like breath. My chest felt tight.
A woman walked her dog in the distance, and I wondered if she ever counted her own footsteps just to feel anchored.
I considered: Am I making my overthinking sound too self-seeking? Isn’t this just how we all feel-tangled, uncertain?
I didn’t want to write and whine.
I wrote lines lazily about the scenery and the terrain, weariness hugging my frame as I counted down days. I had nothing to count down to. I still don’t.
The wind in Normandy seemed like it should carry things away.
But it carried me too-restless, heavy.
The silence on back roads wasn’t empty. I brought noise with me.
I realised: this follows me everywhere.
My anxiety-or simply the anxious shape I’ve become.
I’m tethered to it now.
Like flags unravelling themselves in the wind, shrieking a hollow flap as they straighten again.
Like smile lines, ironed by the breeze.
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