Sometimes you have to run away to the beach. Even if you can't afford it and you shouldn't. You just do.
Then you should get sunburnt, and ignore it because really, what did you expect? It is the beach and there is sun. You can slather a billion spf on your body and the sun ignores it and burns you anyway.
But the pleasure of falling to sleep, exhausted, at night with the sound of the ocean ceaselessly outside your window outweighs the pain of the burn and the knowledge that there will be hell to pay when you return.
When you look at your pictures, you notice you don't smile. Just look back at the lens. Not sad and not depressed, but somehow weary. Used up. You tell your therapist that you wonder if you got all used up in the years leading up to now. That this is all that is left. The watching. The observing.
You feel like an intruder into the spaces that were yours before. Or maybe they weren't yours but you moved with a different ease and certainty. Now, you feel jumbled and awkward. Not dreamy, not ethereal, but a solid, earth bound presence who can't seem to move with any grace or fluidity.
It doesn't help that you have fallen into the world of China Mieville, where you understand with dreadful clarity the terrible beauty of his made up space. You can't remember the last time an author poked and prodded at your brain with such precise and delicious vocabulary. You fall in love a little bit with the words. The beautiful, beautiful words.
And the sea whispers.