It drones on, with empty determination,  
the moving mouth;  
pouring out a jumble of blurring monotones,  
onto halfhearted minds.  
While stiff gears grind the rust of in-imagination  
and spin silent thoughts,  
that stay quiet and subdued.  

The people move in silent obedience  
to some empty hearted duty;  
colonizing the corridors like clockwork,  
hoping to find refuge in the knowledge,  
behind their murmuring doors.  

Solace to the lurking shadow,  
a fragile future,  
hung by fears and dollar signs.  

An intangible force,  
that makes our feet march in time,  
along the road to success.

First, you draw a square,
inside it — three more.

The one at the top
serves to control.

Lead a line down,
and connect the block —

Memory matrix
is what it’s called.

Draw a line,
then add some more —
and you’re almost ready to go.

There’s one last block
that’s set to show:

Call it the decoding central,
so we know what it’s for.

Give it some lines
that lead out right —

And now we know
what’s inside RAM...
right?

Ok, there’s no jailbreak.
Make room for my innocent alter ego,
because there’s nothing to rebel against.

There are zero classes in my nascent,
year-long, Harvard master’s degree.
They call it ‘self directed study’
and like rockets have stages,
I’ll have ‘self paced modules.’

Am I suddenly at Oxford University?
They’re quite famous for that (no formal classes).
Or am I suddenly grown up and trusted?
I obviously don’t have it all figured out yet,
so I’ll just trust the process.

When I started that other school
(that shall not be named), my advisor
handed me a computer printout - a list
with something like 40 courses on it.
I thought, “Oh, my God,” but one by one,
year over year, I checked-off those courses
and voila! They handed me a diploma.
It was a process.

I understand, if you’re disappointed about the jailbreak, but there’ll
be coffee breaks, lunch breaks, study breaks, bathroom breaks
and more than a few self-directed dance breaks. So stick around.

“You know,” my therapist said, so very seriously, a few years ago,
“you keep laughing.”
.
.
I've Got the World on a String by Robin McKelle
****** Soul Picnic by Ledisi & Billy Childs

Like Harry Potter, the sorting hat (my mom)
has placed me in a ******, crimson colored school.
It’s disorienting, as I go about, the logos are wack.

Poor little rich girl
no beachside lovers
this interminable, scorching summer.

I’m swept up by scholastic spirit.
Can you hear it? Cause it’s deafening me,
on this cool, dry, Boston orientation day.

As we finished our morning 8k jog,
the sunrise blossomed, painting hot lava clouds
with hues of yellow, orange and pink.

We’re traipsing unfamiliar paths,
it’s not what we’re used to, the roads are uneven
and the architecture’s all boxy and wrong.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
Better After All by Jonatha Brooke
Now At Last by *****

That day…
when time paused mid-breath,
nd fate unscrolled its ancient scroll
you walked past me like a verse I was yet to read,
unknowingly planting roots in soil I’d long left barren.

That day…
our eyes crossed paths like rivers recognizing each other
from lifetimes ago…. no lightning, no thunder,
just a silence that echoed louder than any hello.

That day…
you spoke… not much, but enough to stir
a forgotten song inside me.
Your voice was not new; it was remembered.
Like da temple bell’s chime at dawn,
it felt like home I never knew I missed.

That day…
we laughed, hesitantly, like rain meeting parched land.
nd I, a skeptic of this syllabus called destiny,
surrendered to a chapter I didn’t plan to write.

That day…
you called me for da first time,
and I pretended it was casual !!!
but my heartbeat betrayed da script...
It raced like Krishna's chariot on Kurukshetra’s edge,
knowing a war of emotions had already begun!!!

That day…
your texts felt like mantras… small, sacred,
capable of silencing storms.
Who knew pixels on a screen
could feel warmer than touch?

That day…
we became friends - no,
we remembered that we were friends,
from some forgotten yuga
when Draupadi wept nd Krishna bled,
nd promises were not spoken
but soul-carved.

That day…
we fought. Words became arrows.
Eyes turned away,
nd my world… dimmed.
But like da Ganga always finds her way,
so did we - back to each other.
Bcz what’s meant,
was never meant to break.

That day…
we realized this bond isn’t made of time.
It is carved in cosmic dust,
where gods whisper tales of pairs like us
not just friends in common language,
but saanjhe rooh ke safar-saathi.

That day…
you held space for me.
Without touching, you touched.
Without asking, you knew.
Without promises, you stayed.

And today…
as college gates threaten closure,
nd corridors echo with last bell rings,
I do not mourn da ending
for how can one grieve a story
that never needed a beginning?

We….
are not a just campus tale.
We are da hidden verse
between Krishna’s flute nd Draupadi’s silence.
We are not goodbye.
We are always.

So, let da walls fade,
let da uniforms fold,
let routines dissolve
but us,
don’t you dare call this an ending.

Bcz no matter da cities,
no matter da silence,
some friendships are written
in Vedic ink nd starlight,
meant to outlive calendars
and remain…
Eternal,
Unclicked,
But never unloved.
                                        By: - Kanishk

I’m finally going to get on that platform
on the 18th of next month,
for a first-time, one-time performance.
The once, seemingly impossible will come fully true,
which seems like a lot narratively.

It’ll be like leaving home—but we’re crashing out.
Moving on to other plot points, big topics and intense missions.
We’re all caustically optimistic.

Although there’s a cellular-level pull to move on
we can’t help but feel a hesitancy to jump into our multifarious futures.
We’ve never been improvident.

In my personal pool of experience, when I feel alone,
friendless and unseen, this unintelligible fear noise arises
and I'm tempted to tap out. But I never have.
.
.
Songs for this:
walk but in a garden by LLusion
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
I Like You (A Happier Song) [feat. Doja Cat] by Post Malone

I have rituals
for the first day of class
like a superstitious athlete
they get me into a good frame of mind
where I feel like a juggernaut who has total agency
and doesn’t need to seek validation
It’s a moment in time

I have all my books—stacked on my desk
they look serious—very nuts and bolts
I’ve beaten the syllabuses to death
to try to figure out where my power lies
learning is all energy, it’s a marathon
it’s hard to sustain that for the entire semester
so not switching off, now and then, is unrealistic

Still, I’m comfy in in a classroom (I’m a senior)
Good students are just a little weird.
I say hello to the moon so she won’t feel alone
I say ‘cheers,” before taking a shot of mouthwash.
If I lose my ID, my lucky pencil or something, I call out, “treasure hunt!”
When treating everyone to grubHub I ask, ‘the usual?’ When we’re done I ask, ‘how was everything this evening?’
If I see a random girl looking fabulous, I tell her, because if I get complimented, I think about it for a week.
.
.
A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory

It’s Saturday morning. Lisa, Leong and I were in the common area, lazing about. “This is what happened to us (Lisa and I) last night.” I said, beginning to explain last night's trauma to Leong. “We were at the event and it was dead and empty—there was just another couple there. It was made infinitely worse by the gloomy, instrumental, funeral music the on-aux (DJ) was playing. So we went up to him. His headphones were over one ear and off the other.”

“And we were like, ‘Hey, can you play something else? Do something different? Can you please change the hook and play something upbeat—with words?’
“He looked us up and down, dismissively,” Lisa added, touching Leong’s arm to emphasize the point, “then he pulled his other earphone over his previously bare ear to ignore us!

“Because you hurt his feelings,” Leong said.

“No,” I began - I literally, I, like literally don’t understand what he was doing. Being a DJ is customer service, basically. He’s supposed to be making people happy and when two of your four customers complain - you’re supposed to change.”
“You can’t make everyone happy,” Leong suggested, shrugging.
“Is that some kind of dystopian, communist logic?” Lisa asked, shocked (Leong’s from China).
“In America,” she quickly continued, “we try to make the individual happy. He could’ve made half the people in the hall happy - at least the ones that cared enough to engage him.”

“First of all,” Leong began, waving her hands, as if waving away confusion, “the question is - and don’t dodge it - she asked me, “Were you nice? Because you may have hurt his feelings.”
“No, I don’t care,” I said, dismissing ‘feelings.’ “If we’re invited to an event, then our opinions are invited too. it’s like a contract.”
“He might have taken days to plan that playlist.” Leong countered.
“Well, it didn’t matter,” Lisa snarked, “because the funeral was over.”

“Here’s the thing,” Leong said, looking first at Lisa, then at me, “let’s face it, you two aren’t usually ignored, you're both pretty, white, CIS girls—a high society princess, and an upper-crust, trust-fund baby.”
(Oh, she was lashing out over the dystopian crack.)
“Yeah, NO, I.. look, no, you know..” I searched for my words.
Lisa took over, “Look, enough of your divisive, postmodern, race theory crap. These events can only be put on by MEN. Everything here (at Yale) is an EVENT now, with a theme. Girls spend a lot of time getting ready - doing our hair, putting on makeup, picking outfits, for these themes they come up with. It’s like the MET gala out there, where we have to dress to theme every night. Everyone, it seems, has to have a theme. No one wants us to just show up anymore - and they can’t get someone on-Aux to play music with words? The DJ’s just going to play sounds? It’s aggravating when we’ve put in so much effort already.”

“Listen to what you’re say-YING.” Leong said, ‘These events ARE typically put on by MEN, Yale is a male controlled culture - women weren’t even allowed at Yale until 1969. Are men trying to make YOU happy? NO, they’re focused on their happiness.”
“It throws me off that men’s groups, certain guy groups, put these things on,” Lisa reasoned, “because guys barely care about decorations and themes.”
“CAN guys decorate?” I asked, sarcastically—”I mean the straight ones?” I chuckled.

“We put in a lot of effort,” Lisa continued, “We look fantastic and guys just show up, looking the same as ever - what I’m say-ying is - there’s social injustice at work. Last night, it really wasn’t so bad. I mean, people showed up and the DJ eventually got into a vibe, some kind of vibe - whatever. It wasn’t just last night, we’ve been to a LOT of these this year.”

“It’s rife this year, we show up - for what? To be bored?” I updogged, “There’s no music to sing or dance to - and the guys, seriously, they need to take dance lessons or something because they’re bored too—just standing to the side. Girls don’t come to these things to be stared at like circus animals— it’s borderline traumatic. We want to dance and have fun. Uhh! It makes me so angry - and I’m not alone.”
“You’re NOT alone!” Lisa piped in for the sidelines.

“We even tried enlisting the other couple," Lisa said, "asking if they wanted dance music - but they looked like scared freshmen.”
“If I known the host,” I said, “I’d have gone up to them and told them about the music.”
“That wouldn’t be embarrassing?” Leong asked.
“No,” said, “It’s called being honest with your friends and  trying to help.”
“What if..” Leong began, “your musical taste *****.”  “No, it’s not about taste,” I said.
“What if YOU ****!” Leong said. Then, after a second she added, “You ****,” and began chuckling.
“No, no..” I laughed. “YOU ****.” Lisa was heads-up and all ears now—an evil smirk beginning.
“You both ****!” Leong shrieked, swinging the first of many couch pillows wildly.
Queue pillow fight, popcorn fight, dish towel fight, vacuum cleaner fight..
.
.
Songs for this:
Femininomenon by Chappell Roan
Messy by Lola Young
Anxiety by Doechii
.
.
our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list:
Leong, (roommate) 21, a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major,’ is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia - and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). Growing up, I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) we both speak Cantonese (maybe why we were paired?) and we're able to talk a lot of secret trash together.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, (my bff) is a high society princess, who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. She's a (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

It’s Saturday morning at about 9am. I’m in the chemistry lab, a sterile looking room with 12 workstations that are like multi level kitchen islands with sinks and various lab gear. It’s the most fluorescently lit environment on earth and everything looks to be either white, stainless steel or glass.

I’m one of the two students in the lab this morning, so I’ve taken two stations at the far end of the room and I’m performing two experiments at once, I mean, why not get ahead?

Before I start a lab, I do a ‘cutsheet,’ It’s something I learned from my sister, Annick. The cutsheet lists every piece of equipment I’ll use (like a magnetic stirrer), every step I’ll perform (control the atmosphere), every safety measure I need to take (fume hoods), every chemical I will use (for instance alkyl halide in 0.1 concentration) and what my results should be. This is all more-or-less textbook - but I still hand-write it out myself.

It’s a quiet environment, I have my AirPods in and I’m listening to cello music - it’s relaxing. I’m performing two variations of nucleophilic substitution reactions - creating new carbon-carbon bonds. It’s Pretty standard stuff and I’m at the stage, in both experiments, where I combine reagents. When suddenly, a TA (teaching assistant) is stooping over my hunched, left shoulder.
“What do you have there?” He asked - let’s call him Lewis. I flinched. Ok, I jumped.

Lewis’ breaking the silence was sudden and intrusive. I hadn’t noticed him prowling about and for a moment I was flummoxed. I tapped my AirPods to stop the music.

This was irritating. See, anything I would say to him would sound like a child talking to an adult. He’s a doctoral student and to him what I’m doing is stupidly simple, like stacking blocks, but he’s put me in that position.

“I’m doing both variations of (problem set/homework) problem 5,” I motioned to the other station, “and I’m ready to introduce the Grignard reagent,” I couldn’t help a note of cringy defiance creeping into my tone, like a child expecting to be reprimanded.

“Are you..,” he started to say, I’m sure he didn’t mean for it to sound like an interrogation.
But I read his mind, adding, “I’m using anhydrous conditions and an ethereal solvent,” this time I said it like it should be obvious—and again I sounded childish and brittle (like an ignoramus)—to myself anyway—but I was at a loss. ‘God, I really need to be less defensive,’ I thought, mortified. I hate looking dumb.

He nodded his head, he’d been looking over my cutsheet. I gave him an upturned, sideways glance. Was he going to stand around observing or worse yet micro-manage me?
“Very good,” he pronounced, tapping my cutsheet lightly with an index finger, “carry on.”

He walked away, off to bother the other student, I hoped. Better him than me. I had work to do. I tapped my music back on, looking at my cutsheet.
Where was I?
.
.
Songs for this:
Havana by Brooklyn Duo
Carnival of the Animals: XIII. The Swan by Yo-Yo Ma & Kathryn Stott