I’m not even human anymore, I’m just a composite of anxiety and idiom being dragged through a series of haggard experiences, collated daily and draped on chronology like a string of shitty pearls. I found out consciousness doesn’t exist and that was the end of it. It’s just data on slides with a discernible delay that puts the I into irrelevance. I mean, I didn’t need much convincing of something I already suspected, but it still hurt, you know. All my hope took away and replaced with determinist programming. There’s no purpose in it, I think, therefore I’m meaningless.
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.