I lived in a bookshop

There are some things in life that you know you will never experience again. It’s both tragic and beautiful in its ephemeral nature. Like reading your now favourite book for the first time. You’ll wish you could experience it ‘just once more’, but the clock’s arms won’t tick backwards.

In March, I lived in a bookstore in Paris. My window opened on to the Notre Dame, I spent my days writing and consuming every piece of inspiration that the city had to offer.

I walked the Seine every night, I ate pain au chocolat and watched local theatre.

I danced in Jazz bars in underground churches, and drank Saint-Germain cocktails.

I wrote in cafes. Outside them, inside them. A cup of tea always within reach, and a book of poetry in my bag.

I enjoyed writing. I did. It shocked me. Writing had slowly become something pressurised and lacklustre. An act of confinement rather than expression. It has brought me so much joy to find my old friend again.

Whilst you’ll always come across someone who says they love artists, you’ll rarely come across someone that supports artists. Not in this place, not in the magical bookstore. It holds a history of creativity, trust and encouragement. It gives a gift to every writer who walks through those doors. A gift of time, of patience, and of energy. Your cells are infused with hope. They jiggle with the excitement of it all. The closest feeling I can compare it to is that of the one in making theatre. A cast in rehearsal knowing they are making something of worth. That’s the feeling. It’s simply magic. And this bookstore, I’ll be under its spell for the rest of my life.