I take the thing from my pocket and place it in Sebastian’s hand. It squirms a little there, mildly galvanised ferrofluid. ‘Heavier than it looks,’ he says, what everyone says. Shy, slender tendrils probe out into the trenches of his palm, an apprehensive chiromantic inquisition, and Seb’s face drops into pallid reticence. ‘Is it supposed to hurt?’ Only when you know it’s there, I tell him. ‘And you always carry it around?’ For a moment I consider running, the horizon, and the lightness of a life without. It’s always there, I tell him, even when I wish it wasn’t.
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.