Maybe if you leave, we can work it out.

I need a permanent blanket of nimbus clouds more oppressive than a Roman Catholic Court.

But, moving to London might convict me back to the cityscape of wasted Fridays and Saturdays.

Because without it, the Betrand Russell in me might just start to wake up. And then I’d remember - there has to be more to life than the 9 to 5 daze.

Washington DC stopped being fun after week two, and now I see it for what it is — a crush of desperate tourists blowing cigarette smoke in your face while you sweat last night’s drinks and Jumbo slice crash.

Anywhere that sells Nutella crepes is pretty sweet, and I love all the kite flyers and buskers festivals. I long ago realized that while Christiania has hundreds of market stalls, they’re all selling the same material things on a Groundhog Day loop: baked goods, stolen bikes, old furniture, cheap phones, and bags of open air hash.

Climbing up Carcassonne, a fortified medieval French town, probably is the best thing ever, but somehow, the two-hour lines to get into Berghain seem more worth it — all that dirt, grunge, and spinning feels as close to Dante’s Inferno; as close to feeling alive as it gets.

But now my Sunday afternoons are spent curled on top of my clean bedsheets, twitching about like a decapitated blue whale - batshit exhausted and depressed but somehow grinning like The Joker, wondering if sleep ever sets.

i'm constantly stuck between
bones and blood and amphetamines
i keep thinking that
i can have it all if i just find the right scene
and i can see toxic thoughts like toxic waste
contaminating the oceans of my mind
a bitter aftertaste, a better nursery rhyme
the glowing eyes of my demons
reflecting off the blade of a knife
and the half smiling rings on the coffee table
are the only things keeping me
company at night
i never thought i'd ever describe pain as
"bright"
"vibrant"
"almost warm in the right light"
i'm stuck here, falling apart
a glass object breaking in slow motion
becoming bones before tomorrow starts
fissures turn to fractures, an explosion
kids these days call that abstract art
who i am hates who i used to be,
and who i was always wanted to be
this
a human typewriter who knows
how everyone's stories begin and end
a tree limb that never breaks, only bends
the back end of a horse
a street with a dead-end
a best friend a godsend
wind me up and watch me pretend
turning circles and spitting up my
heart on my bedroom floor.
"this is as good as it gets, my friend."

my life.
me.
my place.
school.
pending job application.
All of it is so
overwhelming
I feel like if it all stopped-
rather if I stopped.
It wouldn't change anything.
It would make things move
smoother.
Definitely would be more cost effective
for my mother.
Just one less student to collect data from
to then be averaged into a system.
my purpose of
living is currently
aimless.
Going to high school for medical careers yet
my heart lies
between
lines.
Until I settle,
I'll keep riding my skateboard in the
same neighborhood and stay writing in the
same journal and keep loving the
same lover..

“A solider wandering alone
Around people in masks
Like an innocent soul surrounded by evil spirits
No longer alone just merits in lockets”

In the back of my notebook
I'm writing letters of sorrow
Not sure what to call unavoided Tacenda
Help me escape this hysteric agenda

As the ink bleeds out of my pen
And the tears run into pages undone
The fear of forgetting and being forgotton
It's the race I’ll never out run

For the plot of your life isn't your choice
Questioning desires and is it really your voice
Directions you take make no sense
Is it truly there only for suspense

By: Zoulaikha

Life stretches skywards
plucked by an unnamed child
and chewed for an hour or so
then dropped in a catatonic drool
I'm a worse person in my dreams,
which one am I really
contemplative harrumphing
cosmic fractals pose dramatically
but the paparazzi is focused elsewhere
when my hands cup dropping water
it's the same face half-veiled by fire
and the trance created by its traipsing limbs
leave the men in circuitous conversation

"We are defined by the choices we make."
How do we truly understand this sentence, then?
Is it the bottom of the beer bottle in which we find it?
Or the passionate afternoon with that red haired stranger?
Maybe perhaps that beautiful pointless death you bloomed within yourself.
In which case you smiled and said, "It's alright."
Maybe the breaking point was when you realised you spent conforming to avoid being branded otherwise.
Self-immolation isn't that much fun.
It began with a heart-burn.
And continued with a tussle for control within.
Til you realised you could no longer pretend you wanted both sides of the cake.
The hunter and prey.
Then you awoke.
And saw that you were no better, no less than the entirety of the roads you took.
Now this is where you made or broke.
A knife to the arm, a rope to the neck, a pill to wash it all away.
A cacophonous tremor rippling across your psyche.
And you realised.
"Do I deserve this future, death, life I've been craving for? Or are we always, sometimes monsters?"

nodus tollens- the realization that the "it" of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore

you call me your butterfly;
your little butterfly child
with my weak bones,
weak skin
and a weak heart.

you call me your butterfly
and my head fills with honey; you say you love me.
you call me your butterfly
and suddenly i can’t help but melting
when you look into my eyes.
you call me your butterfly
and suddenly i want you to be mine
till our wings become soft and dissipate in the warm winds.
you call me your butterfly
and say we are going to fly around the world
to see the black sky paradises
and the nightshade blues.
and all of the other hues.
you say that even in death
our love will last forever.
you said that when you called me your butterfly child.

tell me i’m yours when we are all alone
and maybe i’ll tell you you’re mine.
tell me you love me when i rest my head on your chest.
and maybe i’ll tell you i love you too
tell me you need me when you run your hands through my hair
while we lay in bed for the last time
and maybe i’ll need you just as much.
tell me you want me when you look into my eyes
and maybe i’ll tell you i want you just as much.

butterflies don’t say maybe
and neither do i.
i’ll call you mine when we are alone.
i’ll tell you i love you when i rest my head on your chest;
feeling every one of your heartbeats and breaths.
i’ll tell you i need you when you play with my hair;
the smell of you lingers in my hair
as i lay in bed dreaming of all of our time together.
i’ll tell you i want you when i look into your eyes;
for when i look into your eyes
the wind stops blowing
the sun stops shining
and my mind stops thinking.

if you have to fly away that’s okay
if know we promised to stay
but sometimes is rains when it’s not supposed to
and sometimes we pull flowers out of the ground
just to see them die and change
so i understand if the wind is going to blow you in a different direction
but don’t forget about the days where we chased the sun
and ended up talking to the moon
and don’t forget about the picture-perfect memories
where our smiles looked so big
that no one would have guessed that we were not happy
and don’t forget about all the nights we laid awake
talking about the plans we had for ourselves
and the plans we made together
and don’t forget about every shock
that you felt when my skin brushed up against yours.

you are my butterfly.
eventually, we will come together and fly.
for now, you can visit the black sky paradise
and the nightshade blues
and i’ll come one day
and be with
you.

was it your twisted time?
or was it just a figment of my mind?
I built my wall so high
it reached above the sky
you built your ego so bright
that I was even blinded in your sight

you made yourself so right,
so it seems.

i break my wall so briskly
never thought that it was all too risky.

i crashed,
I crashed,
I CRASHED.

I did not see the sign
I lost track of time
i-
I, would've thought that you were mine
but that was only a figment of my mind
a figment
of my mind

I did not pick up this pen
for you
only to repress my hand down all the way
and spill all this ink over my bleeding hands

but you,
wouldn't know it anyway
i burnt
behind you all the way.

I am from
        waking up at 5 a.m.
        and making my dad pour me a glass
        of chocolate milk and put in
        the Tom & Jerry VCR tape.
I am from
        the years spent on stage
        performing, acting, dancing,
        making music from the keys and strings of instruments
        that I have since abandoned.
I am from
        the technology that shaped me,
        which I cannot live without-
        the shows and movies and games; staying up,
        the bright screen of my laptop glaring against the darkness of my room.
I am from
        crying until my eyes are red and raw,
        happy and sad and laughing tears
        from the deaths and lives and breakups and reunions
        of the characters and shows I will never forget.
I am from
        lying in my bed
        listening to the music that has healed me,
        blaring in my ears
        and against the four walls that enclose me.
I am from
        the places I’ve been-
        from La Jolla to Lancaster to Boston and Nanjing,
        to the places I wish to go-
        from Sydney to Quebec to Venice and Chicago.
I am from
        homework and studying and tests,
        and homework and studying and tests.
        Yearning for college since middle school,
         to be around people who crave knowledge, too.
I am from
        Modus Ponens and Modus Tollens and Disjunctive Syllogism,
        and memorizing fallacies and philosophy arguments at 8 a.m.,
        the course that challenged me beyond my limits,
        the course that introduced me to my favorite place in the world.
I am from
        my home away from home-
        lying on the grass of the quad,
        dancing beneath the stars
        to the Canon, the soundtrack of my youth.
I am from
        the memories I hold
        within polaroids and photos behind screens,
        within songs and books and between the lines
        of the poems that I have bled from my heart onto paper.
I am from
        my previous and continuing attempts to escape this town,
        and the meaningless interactions within the cold halls of highschool;
        trying to find the people who will become my people
        and the places I will call home.


                                                         ­                                j.z.

Who am I?

Maybe that’s the million dollar question.
Are you your reflection?
Are you that voice in your head that you hear when you read?
Perhaps you’re your heartbeat.
As you walk in the street, if you think of it; everyone’s seeking a sense of self and that voice is having a million thoughts a day.
Everyone’s having a complex human experience that sculpts their reality.
Maybe we’re all just one being, experiencing billions of lives simultaneously as an experiment.
Who knows?
Maybe we’re just an evolutionary accident; as in the universes lifespan, humanity’s existence is but a blink of an eye in the sense of time.
Now... let me ask, who are you?

The intangible danceable
Felt but not seen
Frolicking on the edge
Of spaces in between

Peek-a-boo shadows
Spider-web touches
Goosebumped skin
Rosy red blushes

Whispers on wind
Soul unconfined
The curve of the smile
Fits the curve of my mind

A half told anecdote
Unnoticed excellence in the mundane
Quiet anticipation
Jolting epiphanies of keyframe

Emotional nutrients of xeno
Ecstatic shock and sonder
Ambedo and nodus tollens
Forever I wonder and wander