A note from the beach
Hello.
I am the beach.
I am created by waves and currents.
I am made of eroded rocks.
I exist next to the sea.
I have been around for millions of years.
I was around at the dawn of life itself. And I have to tell you something.
I don’t care about your body.
I am a beach.
I literally don’t give a fuck.
I am entirely indifferent to your body mass index.
I am not impressed that your abdominal muscles are visible to the naked eye.
I am oblivious.
You are one of 200,000 generations of human beings. I have seen them all.
I will see all the generations that come after you, too.
It won’t be as many. I’m sorry.
I hear the whispers the sea tells me.
(The sea hates you. The poisoners. That’s what it calls you. A bit melodramatic, I know. But that’s the sea for you.
All drama.)
And I have to tell you something else.
Even the other people on the beach don’t care about your body.
They don’t.
They are staring at the sea, or they are obsessed with their own appearance.
And if they are thinking about you, why do you care? Why do you humans worry so much about a stranger’s opinion?
Why don’t you do what I do? Let it wash all over you.
Allow yourself just to be as you are.
Just be.
Just beach.
Copyright © Matt Haig,
Canongate Books.
