I walk down the sidewalk, surrounded by the midnight shade of nearby trees and the croaking of mating frogs.
There are tears biting the corners of my eyes and my heart is rising up into my throat.
I don’t get anxiety attacks often but when I do, I go for late night strolls.
I tip my head to the sky and focus my mind. I feel the wind, hear the soft whoosh of passing cars, taste the dew in the air, and see the stars blinking down at me.
And then, I write a story.
That’s why my stories always start with someone walking somewhere- because I’m always walking somewhere when I think of them.
I pretend the trees shadowing me are talking entities and that the people I pass on the street are sorcerers and magical creatures.
By the time I circle back to my apartment, my anxiety is washed away by the vibrancy of my own imagination. It wraps around me like a comfort blanket and I hold it tight as I go back to my home and write a new story.