Graham, suffused with marijuana smoke, reads his lines from cards held in the ether. ‘The truth has never been real,’ he says. The cumulous pall built about his skull grants the manufactured mysticism of a Himalayan diorama, peaked ideas clotted with cotton wool clouds. ‘What is shown is shaped by the hands that reveal it. What is known is flexible enough to snap.’ The words fall out of him with strange waylaid purpose, a bundle of skydiving knives, inevitably swift and dangerously misdirected, building momentum and heading towards a pointless incision. ‘I mean, have you even read the data?’
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.
05/02/2014 at 01:56
I like the cotton wool clouds of mind. Very descriptive.
05/02/2014 at 11:03
Thanks, it kind of fell out of me after I thought I’d already finished the piece. I had to rework the whole thing but I’m happy I did.