Wandering through a bookshop on a Friday – a rarity, given my job, age, and inclination to melodrama and extravagance, I find myself wistfully gazing at shelves and displays. But make no mistake; I am not attempting to locate the physical manifestation of words, dreams, ideas, narratives in my experience, rather, it is the signified which I am attempting to locate. The notion of freedom – to spend hours browsing, to be able to disengage from the effervescent, smothering reality that we will forever struggle to be free from – that is what I am seeking. And in that search I will find, of course, somehow, a way to feed and clothe myself, companions and people that will equally burden and enrich me, define me, and the somewhat disappointing product of all that productivity, efficiency and inspiration, always insipid and peculiarly familiar, half-plagiarised, un-original. But that’s the way we are. Then we think, no, there is more to this, and plunge back into the fray, once again. No, yes, no, no. Not yet.
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