‘I know the scale you’re sliding down,’ she tells me. ’I have a metric for your happiness.’ I imagine her with callipers placed gingerly upon my person while I sleep, little tickers and a digital graph pinging astutely from the eaves while she nods with satisfaction. You can’t annotate my soul, I say, but she smiles, winsome and detached. ‘It’s all just data, infinite numbers and floating point existentialisms.’ Magician’s jargon dripping from a pipette. Guesses strapped uncertainly to truths, I tell her. ‘More, inductive plotting.’ So, tell me how this makes me feel, and she consults her notes.
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.