Day Nineteen: When You’re Nothing At All, There’s No More Reason to Be Afraid.
It feels good to have nowhere to be, and nothing to do. Half the time I’m doing things I could definitely do back home— reading, writing, lazing around— all that’s different is the scenery, the people, the weather, the minuscule things. But it feels different here.
I spent most of the week reading under the sun on the beach. Omaha beach, Port de Cancale, St-Malo’s old town. I haven’t felt the urge to keep reading in a long while. And a book I found by chance, no less. In Caen, I happened to come across a quaint little bookshop, Mémoranda. I almost didn’t walk down that street. Almost didn’t see the basket full of books at cheap prices. I almost didn’t pick this one. And out of it’s 200 odd pages I turned to beginning of a chapter that tells the story of exactly how I’ve been feeling. Just when I’ve almost completely forgotten what it feels like to not be able to put a book down. Funny how these almosts could have easily not happened.
I still feel bad sometimes. I feel like I’m wasting time, having come so far away just to not do much. I feel like I’m not experiencing enough. But someone said to me the other day, that I’m doing exactly what I would never do back home— sit, read, relax and just be. I would gladly spend the rest of my days like that.
Now I’m in Cardroc, France. In this little town there’s not much to do. No reason for me to not sit around and just be. I guess I’m still learning how to stop being so anxious about all these perceived not-enoughs.
It’s almost the same, but it feels very different here.