Standing silently with my toes pressed into the wet sand, I can’t help but marvel at the tangibility of the harsh breeze inside my stomach. At once, so near and so pointed. It feels like something so engulfing it might swallow my entire body, yet somehow, I can barely make out its silhouette.

As icy water rushes to meet my backtracking feet, shivers rip through my spine. Overhead, fretful birds melt through the dim clouds above. Pitter-pattering like a dripping faucet, the sound of rain droplets echo over the low rumble of the anxious waves.

In some strange and unintelligible way, the scene before me, breathed through with such glum and melancholic brushstrokes, feels like an exact portrait of the feelings welling up inside of me during this pandemic of ours. An illustration of all that I can’t see but can’t escape. Even though I can’t feel the rustling inside of my stomach as clearly as I can see the puddles of rain water dancing their way back into the sea, the message is no less legible.

Not quite pain or sadness, just simply a feeling caught somewhere between the space afforded to our words.