Waking up at three am, wondering what happened to the day I was just in. Sweat-stuck to the sofa amidst the dusty rubble of recollection, small portions of shame gnawing on my extremities, street sounds of construction churning asphalt in my head. I might have died, I tell the dark, you wouldn’t know. The LED eyes of technology blink and stare and bide in myriad concert from their shadowed ghettos, judgements made in standby. Feeling my way over the stained and sticky, grubby paw prints of excess spread across my skin, trying to remember what I should forget.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.