This is the best mask I could find and still it won’t quite fit. Other people have been wearing theirs for years and it seems like second nature to me. I know some folk never take it off, wearing it to bed, waking and walking around the day fronting fatty tissued grimaces rendered into appropriate composite sketches; contorted, really, to suit a social whim. Suffocating, I should think, the wearer dead like an inside-out puppet, the mask gasping to blend into the atmosphere, exposure a faux pas. I struggle just to put mine on and regurgitate the lines.
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.