I never thought that you would be an afterthought Someone I do not even greet while passing Someone who shares a mutual disappointment every time we look at each other in the halls The rage in your eyes and the guilt in mine Our souls don't agree like they used to Instead our bond shriveled away in a lump of wasted potential Filling the wasteland of all failed relationships I have

It was the chocolate chip pancakes I would make for you on summer mornings But I had to be careful with how many chocolate chips You did not like sweet things And every time we made bacon the smoke alarms would go off And the cats would escape for the terrace door It was the strawberry kisses on cool June days Going to the supermarket with your dad Only to pick out that one specific kind of orange juice It was walks in Central Park at night Where we would lie on the great lawn looking up at the stars Or sit on the rocks by the castle, looking down at the water But these memories deceived me...

One summer my friends and I explored the forest and creek behind my house. We spent all afternoon out there singing songs and telling ghost stories. I miss that feeling of simple joy and peace with nature. Now, I spend all my time inside studying. https://www.instagram.com/ellesliterarycorner/ Whatever happened to the meadow? To the beautiful spring days of our childhood. Whatever happened to the autumn leaves? Falling and swirling in variegated shades of russet, gold, and amber. Whatever happened to the winter nights? Snuggling under a blanket together with warm cups of cocoa. Whatever happened to the summer sun? Beating down on our backs when we swam in the backyard pool. What happened to the days where we didn’t have to worry about grades or responsibilities? Days we danced and laughed and played without a care in the world. Whatever happened to nap time and snack break? We used to run and jump and chase each other through the woods, but Now there’s homework, exams, essays, and research papers due everyday, and We hardly have the time to talk to each other. We should go back to the meadow, you and me. No one but us and our dreams.

A painting that represents my spiritual and self love journey. https://www.instagram.com/iloveallura_/

https://www.instagram.com/avp.art.ig/

I found a safe place to be inside my mind. I exist throughout the continuum of time. Time isn’t real, at the same time it’s minimal, continuing to breathe cuz the afterlife is figural, figuratively a physical state of the mind. We climb to heaven from hell our whole lives. Sins like greed, anger, and despise. Happiness, sadness, love, it’s all trail and error. The world is only a reflection of your mirror. Most are afraid to look a bit clearer. Most people are blinded, by fear, by ego. Your worldly ties in the universe mean zero. Your assets, gadgets, your physical body, even people. They make it seem like gifts are for superheroes. But we got intuition, claircognition, freedom of will and spirit. And the most powerful one that can be accessed at any stage: The ability to change.

This short story gives us a glimpse into the lives of the working-class people in the London borough of Hackney. In a way, it is an ode to those who have struggled and continue to struggle, but I hope it illuminates the transcendent beauty in their ordinary lives and how important their contribution to their family is for the community, and for society. https://www.instagram.com/aysharahman__?r=nametag The man who works overtime wakes in the early morning, five times a week. Sometimes, when they are in dire needs, his early mornings will stretch for seven days. If you were to steal a look at his hands, you would immediately recognise that this is a man who not only works to fill every hour of every day, but is the victim of a monotonous and laborious filled job. Each crate he lifts and every floor he scrubs, etches marks onto his hands that are stubborn to fade away. The rough and detangled scheme of reality tears his skin. They serve as a reminder of his financial plight. His brown fingers are covered in blisters – blisters that do not have time to mend, for they break again. And how precious is time, really, to the man who works overtime? The hours, days, weeks and months blend together. The routine of his ordinariness makes life a blur, and time a substance which cannot be tamed within clocks. The passage of time, as viewed by the man who works overtime, is relentless and unforgiving. It pushes, it laughs and it taunts those who have not mastered the art of time-saving or time-wasting. The result of which leaves the victim powerless, very much like a mouse caught in a trap. His wife, known in the estate block as the tremendously kind and gifted seamstress, possessed hands that bled and tore when she pushed the needle through various fabrics. Their son may be the only one who possesses perfectly moulded hands. This stark difference in the family is made clear during daylight, when the iridescent light shows one pair of hands that exudes youth and vitality, whilst the other pair expresses hardship and great sadness. This sadness gradually metastasizes throughout the body until it has touched every crevice, conquering it for its own. This will soon enough be the truth which the young boy will live. He has glimpsed parts of his future life through his parents, and tasted it, repulsed by it but accepted it. His acceptance was not of a desire to fill the role, but of respect and admiration of his parents’ courage. With the foreknowledge that it will soon enough be his turn to encounter the world, does it make his story even more tragic, or all the more heroic? His parents, who live a few doors down, however are relieved from their working days, and are now in retirement. However, we mustn’t cast these poor elderly folk aside and paint them as selfish, good-for-nothings who lounge on benefits whilst watching daytime television. No, they are mending their hands and feet which are covered in blisters and scars alike, that continue to cause pain and anguish. This bodily pain often tends to be the cause of prolonged severe health deficits. Therefore, it is just to say that amongst the elder generation, the weight of their plight is equally felt as with the likes of those who work still overtime. Here, I would like to pause to give a passing comment. It is important to note that this is a family who indeed is struggling, but they are not the paradigm of aching souls who have found themselves thwarted by (what feels like a fixed system of) meritocracy. In fact, they are a rivulet in a stream, an instance of a tragic widely felt and experienced reality whose hands begin to shed apart. Wondrous as biology is, the platelets are not enough to stop blood flowing from their hands, the reason belonging to the excruciating demands of modern life. The media and their glossy magazines that sell plastic smiles, aren’t enough to convince the ordinary people of Hackney that modern society is life-affirming. It is too often than not that these ordinary souls, these collections of cells who drift in and out of their dreams, discover how life-denying modernity can be. It is important to acknowledge that they are not working out of vain, but of necessity. They are people in bundles who dream and who still perserve their hopes and dreams. Now, whilst the skin of their hands break, and will inevitably be severed continuously until they draw their last breath, there is perhaps an optimistic side to view the carnage that the word ‘break’ elucidates. Namely, it is this: once the broken family all sit around their broken table, nothing can stop their lips from breaking into a grin when they see the familiar faces. The grin then transforms into a beaming smile that radiates their expression, big, small, old and young. And then, in the evening which is covered in moonlight, you can see the countless breaks in their faces, albeit wrinkles, and scars, and smiles. Similar to how the ice from mountains eventually cast downwards to sea below, the breakage does not remove the beauty of the Alps. Instead, at that moment of natural cleavage, we witness the majesty of nature to its fullest and its most beautiful, regardless of the inevitable collapse of ice. No matter how much their skin breaks, the wounds heals and it builds new. This is what is understood but unspoken in the neighborhoods of the men who work overtime. It is what the seamstress is thinking when she is tending to her husband’s downtrodden hands, as she applies antiseptic cream and bandages. Lovingly, she begins to talk to her family and upon hearing these words of comfort, they all gleam with pride and happiness: “The universe may be grand and chaotic. The chaos may often seep into our lives, making us feel that we are spiralling out of control. But it is important to bear in mind that we are still in control, no matter how tumultuous we feel inside and how we may see outside as a frenzied mess. In the end, we can go from chaos to order, and it is an order which we control”. Control. Control. Control. She finishes tying the bandage and the then resealed the antiseptic cream, which is now reopened by the man who works overtime to use on the seamstress. And it is at this moment where an important lesson about the human condition is revealed.

An ode to a long lost lover. To what purpose, silent traitor, dost thou return once more? A quiet murmur of sadness sleeps within me- wouldst thou walk me to the shore? Twas thine own doing to let go, what meditation led thee aback? Delve not- grant but an innocent consent to write a letter from the leaking crack So shall be. Souse the pen into the blood ink of thy soul and come to sight never again "How fares thine heart, beautiful, broken one? Dost thou amble along the isolated roads, still? Doth the weather emerge to thy liking? Dost thou weep in the perfection of nights, still? How persists thy mother's illness? Dost thou smoke away the ache of losing thy companions, still? How fares thine heart, beautiful, broken one? Dost thou loathe the sweet scent of tea. still? Oh, dost thou shiver at demolishing the walls of thine heart, still? Dost thou sit under the somber sky and think thoughts of the unthinkable, still? Dost thou miss thy beloved's fair hands braided with thine in glory. still? Dost thou detest thy beloved's deed of departing thee, still? Dost thou love thy beloved for the sake of eternal love, still?" Still.

My eyes are forced to meet my mother's. She gives me a blank stare, turns around, and refocuses on preparing tonight's dinner. Her eyes have yet again glazed over the anger that wells up in my chest, and I am forced to swallow down my frustration. The doorbell rings and my father enters the house, carrying with him a breath of fresh air, a new beginning, and in his palm a handful of unsettling possibilities. The hand which possesses the possibilities sculpts a visage of cheerfulness upon my face and deeply carves into my soul the identity of an eccedentesiast. I hear my mother's call, an indication that dinner has been served. I go to alert my sister, but her door is closed. I make my way to the kitchen on my own. It's our second to last night here. The table is set as normal, and my mother's eyes, which look more lugubrious than usual, also beam a sense of hopefulness into the room and reveal the great effort she puts into preparing the meal. "How was your day," my mother asks me, already aware the answer is going to be the typical "good" response. Recently, it seems as though it's easier for her to ask questions that she already knows the answers to. Mother serves us a rather piquant dish, allowing the silence caused by discomfort to disguise itself as a quietness created instead by focusing on the flavorful and mysterious tastes within the dish. All I hear are muffled voices and the faint sound of snowflakes hitting the windowpane for the rest of dinner. Later that night, my mother enters my room and hands me a steaming cup of tea. She started calling her tea a type of "herbal restorative,” sometime after the news of California. Maybe she believes one of these visits will finally open the door to the restoration of our relationship. I take the mug, thank her for the drink, and close the door behind me. I know my mother isn't as unperturbed by the news of California as she seems. Over the past few months, I have come to believe her resistance to arguments and discussion is for my benefit. My younger sister's strong voice and powerful deliverance of her opinions make it difficult for my mother to maintain composure and calm temperance. Although occasionally I am grateful for the barrier my mother forms to disconnect me from the stressful and quite unsettling conversations between the family and my sister, my sister's voice is my only escape to a pathway of communication. After my mother closes the door behind her, I check my phone and realize it's already 11:00 pm. I pull down my blinds and observe as the light from the outside world disappears behind the shades. Confined in the darkness of my room, I am forced to encounter my emotions on my own. I get into bed and open up to where I left off the night before in Catcher in the Rye, a book that has enlightened me that one does not have control over reality or anyone else but only contains the power to control themselves. The words sink into my mind, and I wonder if the barrier between my mother and me is not because of an event or her, but rather because of how I have changed within myself. By shutting her out and losing the unique and imperative protection of a mother, I have unleashed the weaknesses within that prey on my soul and allow polluted thoughts to destroy my perspective on the world around me. The silence encompasses me. Maybe if I had set aside my stress, my mind would have been able to restore itself to its prior state. I could have found another way to regain intimacy and the love and appreciation I had for her and the connection I thought was unbreakable. Resentment inundated the space in which she had resided in my heart. The soul connecting us had struggled and now drowns under the waves of my emotions. Perhaps if I had realized sooner the damage done, I could have rekindled the fire keeping the happiness between my mother and me burning and alive. The remnants of the fire are gone now, and I no longer have the will to exchange with her the emotions held deep within me. A place with no light leaves no chance for one to be seen. I wake up to the sound of moving furniture and the smell of coffee, which reminds me of the disgustful coffee scent that lingers in the airport as one returns from a peaceful and reviving trip. This is my last day in the city. I walk into the hallway, and for the first time, I recognize that the family photos have been removed from the walls, and my dog's bed and the basket of toys have been replaced with bags of clothing and boxes of books. The beds have been stripped bare, and the Moroccan rug is rolled up and tucked away along with the homely atmosphere that used to surround us as we got ready for school, cooked dinner, watched movies, and played with the dog. The family room looks the same to me, but who am I to talk? I haven't entered that room for a long time now. The sun shines through the window and radiates quivering beams of light into the room. I look out onto the streets below where the pedestrians have become nothing more than strangers and the lights from apartments across the way distant and faded. The city has been my home for 16 years. No matter the neighborhood, the city continues to hold my secrets, hopes, and dreams. The house looks out over the gray pavemented streets below, and a block away stands the large, majestic structure of the Metropolitan Museum. Beyond the MET is Central Park, which I have navigated through, in many different states of mind. I know the reservoir as one eventually comes to understand and appreciate a friend, know it when it's frozen, preserving life beneath the ice and it's occasionally cracking of its surface to disenthrall the feelings of those who are trapped and cannot express themselves; when small ripples appear on the surface and reveal its ability to emerge from solitude and destroy everything in its path; when it is still, a dark mysterious green and blue, provoking a desire for reposeful and deep contemplation. California intrudes into my mind, but it is unknown to me, and so I am left alone in a state of desolation. Suddenly I'm falling into the extraordinary summer afternoon when I finally saw my mother in the beautiful light I had only been able to encounter in my imagination. We were swimming in the vast and salty Sound, right off the coast of Martha's Vineyard, when we mounted a large rock hidden under the white-capped waves of the sea surrounding us. The music of the sea creatures drowned out all other tones of the ocean, and yet I could still hear my mother's muffled laugh as she dove into the waves ahead. As the sun uncloaked itself from behind the clouds and shone down upon the rough and tenebrous ocean, everything seemed to become a clear crystalline complexion. I bound off the rocks and joined my mother in the limpid waters of the Vineyard. The transparency of the rolling waves was apparent in the reflection of my mother's eyes. But as the Vineyard disappeared behind the clouds and the city's tall skyscrapers dominated the gray sky, my mind naturally absorbed the pollution and no longer remained clear. It's already 1:00 pm when I get out the door and meet my friend for a walk down Madison Avenue. We pick up drinks and start heading down towards Columbus Circle. "I thought," my friend Stella says, looking audaciously up towards the great buildings that rise high above our heads, "for your last day we should take on the city as if we were tourists. Hopefully, it will prepare you for California, as for the first few months there you will be perceived as nothing other than a traveler from another far-off city." I agree to this because she too is leaving, and I believe it will benefit her just as much as it will me… so we begin our journey. "Welcome to the top floor of the Empire State Building!" Stella says in the tone of a tour guide and points out towards the concrete jungle below us. The buildings are the only tall enough things to see past the fog and pollution stored in the city's sky and in my head. "You know, your mother is worried about you," Stella tells me. "You haven't talked to her in months, how could she possibly know what you're dealing with." I look out into the gray but colorful and lively abyss beneath us, and I wonder if maybe California wasn't what had ruined the relationship between my mother and me. Instead, it had been my silence and fear that the person I believed most understood me wouldn't be able to see the stress and pain I was feeling now. Perhaps I had deeply convinced myself that being disappointed by my mother for not knowing at all would be better than being disappointed by the fact that she knew and didn't care or couldn't understand. Stella reads my mind and pulls me into the staircase. "Why don't we just take the elevator?" I ask. But she is already on her way down the 102 flights of stairs to the bottom. A moment of clarity does not just transform into a reality; it takes a lot more time and effort. I slowly make my way down the stairs, and as I do, the lucidity I finally obtained on top of the building starts to cease.

I heard the echo of wind chimes dancing in the winter breeze Singing a song so ancient that it edged forgotten Now, It tugged at something buried deep Having made a home within the dark crevices of my mind- Forgotten fragments of a faded memory I couldn’t quite grasp They had been lined like China in harmonious order upon storied shelves- bleached by years of ardent sunlight, the color evaporated Recollection was fleeting as snow caught on your sleeve, Its cosmic prisms dissolving into undefined space-time; An unrecognizable, liquidated leftover of what was Foggy, as soft exhale on a winter window The hot breath barely present, spilling like smoke between parted lips and fading in the cold You could reach out to touch it, sure- Press your hand to the glass, feel for something that will slip through your fingers Leaving them raw and numb with the reminisce of a feeling you’ve seemed to misplace

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