I simply stood there and took it, worse, I thought it was right, allowing myself to be moulded by the doctrines of others. A malleable man sculpted by amateur artisans without vision or talent, I stood as a terracotta warrior, seeing myself as stoic but bound by stilted strictures scribbled on scrap and shoved carelessly into my head. Full of silt I called grit, glazed eyes and a burnished countenance, I was proud of my shape and ignored my counterintuitive commands and crumbling base, not yet understanding how to saw off my shackles, nor even see them as such.
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.
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