house of books #3, 18th January 2017

if only, if only, if only… if only there was some context… context rather than just text…. just text, subtext, subliminal lines between liminal strands of invention tossed, spat out and thrown up as flotsam… trains of thought leaving the station leaving me wondering whether I should’ve bought a ticket… return or one way, it wouldn’t have mattered, either is better than the waiting, the weight on each foot becoming more uneven restlessly, unconsciously shifting from one side to the other on this vacant platform reading timetables decades out of date….. such platforms are always cold, it’s something about the concrete, its density and intensity with shoulders constantly at the ready to support the next train to hang between them to spit out its tide of flesh and bone, disoriented eyes and fallen arches……. where did this memory come from, here among the books any one of which I’ve yet to open…. to choose, which one to choose….. my consciousness streamed from the saturated moor desperately looking for an edge to follow over and down and down as fast as the runnels and ruts, meanders and gorges would allow until… until…… I need to choose……some books appear as though they’ve never been moved or even placed on the shelf where they inaudibly sit wearing films of dust on their respective conveniently-worn dust-jackets…….. shouldn’t there be a librarian?…. a library needs a librarian….. books need to know where to belong and without a librarian how can they….. my eyes, hand, fingers lingered an inch from a binding… serene blue, hardback, a title just about legible…… “The Comfort of Madness”……. fingers hung suspended on the frivolous air between…..

© robert greig 2017

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