It comes on strong. Hope sucks out of the room and takes my breath with it. My mind becomes a physical pain, a weighted thing that transcends its dimensions, drawing away into a black chasm that is the absolute of all things and the absence of anything. I lie on the floor, gasping and panting, sodden with sweat and tears and salt and surrounded by the absolute knowledge that the only way to feel ok is for me to die. Every time, I don’t die. But I could. I want to. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.
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.