We never stayed in touch but communicate absently over time, drawn messages in obscure sigils that must be deciphered, yet can’t truly be. Occasionally I take out the memories of us, turning them over like scarred souvenirs. Dog-eared and dirty, speculative relics, there’s very little value left behind, the lessons in each given over to history and all consumed by the past, their meanings beholden to the era of crafting, once chiseled implications lying chipped and dated, faded inferences in disconnected states under laminated strata, artefacts garnered to show that, now as then, still I know such nothing.
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.