If the world is my oyster, it needs more garlic.
In my free time I feel restless, so I go out into the city and end up buying books with the intention of reading or studying them in my free time. But in my free time I feel restless, so I go out into the city and end up buying books... Perhaps I should head for the country. Perhaps I should move to a place where the feeling of restlessness can immediately be quelled by a 10 mile hike into the wilderness, and the dark, cold winters make one glad to be indoors. Take me, Isafjordur!
Even when you find what you're looking for, the compulsion to keep looking remains; the habit cannot be broken merely by being rendered unnecessary. So should life simply be embraced as a quest with no expectation of finding the hole-ridden grail? An endless search for clues leading to more clues like a bad Dan Brown usuel (my coinage for a novel which has nothing new about it. Or how about notvel; novalue (pronounced novel-you); or shitfest?).
Perhaps this writing about it is the thing to be doing. Should I turn inwards and examine the ennui in microscopic detail, then try and get the sightless insights published. No, the world is already drowning under the weight of words, and the weight of wordbuoys thrown in to help the drowning, but which end up merely helping the drowning.
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