Posters and stickers mark the walls in history, if I run my hands across them they will tell me a story in the way of Parisian cobblestones. The time before me is fascinating. I try to picture the establishment of things, the scope becomes so vast as to be vague. My eyes start to hurt from looking into it. I squint, breathe, and wonder briefly how to proceed. Caleb looks at my profile with defiant silence and scratches his balls. Because I’ve noticed, I don’t say anything. I drink my water and nod, agreeing with all that has happened.
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.
13/01/2014 at 23:59
This reads very nicely although I’m not sure I got the ending.
14/01/2014 at 11:01
Thanks for reading Inkposts. Sometimes life is a beautiful tapestry and other times it’s just a guy pissing on your rug. I suppose depth comes from perspective.
14/01/2014 at 01:27
I like this. Your writing is very smooth.
14/01/2014 at 11:04
Thanks, I like to catch it while it’s flowing out of my head instead of relentlessly chiselling it out of my skull. It hurts less that way.