Some background

A few years ago, a friend recommended that I read The Paper House. She hinted that there was some secret - a Moral - in the book's pages, something would shed some light on my peculiar existence. It is a lovely and little book, with a cover that shines as if lined in pearl. The paper is thick and glossy, and the illustrations are made of delicate feathers dusted with colour.

The Moral was (to paraphrase): my obsession with books would one day suffocate me.

When I saw my friend next, I told her I had finished the book and that I understood. She smiled at me, my co-conspirator.

Ever since then, I have kept this moral tucked away in my heart, a secret key to my soul. I am a bibliophile, I think sometimes, and smile. The idea that my obsession might one day kill me is less scary than reassuring, you see. Live by the sword; die by the sword. Except this metaphysical death is more of a phoenix-like rebirth.

Then, a few months ago, the same friend gave me another book: How Proust Can Change Your Life. The moral of this one: Put down this book! I felt attacked, offended; there was a conspiracy afoot. But, defiant, I carried on as usual. But then the next book I read said the same thing! And the next! Perhaps they were all right. Perhaps I am slowly being suffocated. Perhaps I already have been and what is left is an idea-embalmed corpse. So, I decided to change my life. Escape from my imagination. Live in the real world. Every step like glass under my feet and no voice to scream.

That is when I hit the wall. The wall that stretches up to the sky and as far along the horizon as you can see. That is how I found myself on the ground, with a brickwork pattern imprinted on my skin.