Every evening as I trudge homewards there’s one window that reminds me of you, always lit with a starry night hung behind its pane. There’s such majesty in its strokes, even through its printed ink facade, a beckoning reminiscence captured in reproduction. This luminous forgery seems so apt in the darkness, I find myself beguiled by its solicitations and begrudging of its evocations. I want to celebrate the truth of its existence but the fact of it makes me love hating the knowledge of the lie, breeding such swirling conflict that the piece is now my favourite ruined thing.
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.