Even her name lives in fluidity, shifting syllables and sibilance, assonance in consonance and vagrancies of vowel without so much as why. To speak her name is to conjure the merest moment into substance, an alchemical miracle that disintegrates immediately under scrutiny. Still, I try it upon my tongue at every turn and find that where once my words were leaded things, unpalatable even to my ears, they arrive now flecked with gold that is surely not my own. I speak her name and find myself transfigured, all sinister elements corroded and configured into something utterly precious and rare.
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.