Literary Harrovian - Life and Loss (June 2023)

Life and Loss

Don’t blink, Iris Hemberg

Life is a fragile thing, Nga Kiu Ho

The greatest loss in life, Jessica Hicks

Nothing Gold Can Stay, Maia Lui-Schwille

life is limited, Kamil Siu

The Life I Had, James Keady

Once Life, Now Loss, Haruka Xin

Once there was harmony, Aarya Kotecha

Yours truly, Life and Death, Rylee Yeo

Doomsday, Jessica Keady

Sharpshooter’s Oath, Zi Yan Huang

Skulls, stoicism and existential dread, Catherine Hu

The Final Death, Jessica Cheng

Senior Editors

Nicole Lau

Prinda Li

Editors

Ashley Tam

Paris Wang

Cherly Chan

Jessica Keady

Editor-in-chief

Chloe Levieux

Jessica Cheng

Flora Chen

Graphic Designers

Jessica Keady, Nicole Lau

Front and Back Cover Art

Chloe Lau

Promotion

Luna Huang

Editor's Note Editor's Note

photography by Nicole Lau

eshajōri 会者定離 - noun. “people meet, always part”; the concept that expresses the idea about the impermanence of all things, that every human relationship will end someday due to the transient nature of life

Emerging from the haze of the past three years, it seems that each of us has experienced more life and loss than we ever anticipated. While the two are intrinsically linked, this does not limit the significance of either event. Still, the question remains as to whether the transient nature of human relationships renders them pointless or futile. At the Literary Harrovian, we refute this point. Life and loss make us feel things, and if all that remains of these feelings is what we have documented, possibly through literature, then we have something to contribute to the world.

Writing my final editor’s note for the Harrovian, the concept of eshajori feels particularly apt. When two of my friends and I first started the magazine in 2019, we never dreamt that it would continue past the first amateur publication put together on a Google Doc. Four editions later, I feel extremely grateful for all the amazing people I have worked with and very proud of the work we have produced showcasing the literary talent at this school! I gratefully hand over the reins to Jessica, Prinda and Nicole who I trust will carry on the great legacy of women championing the English Department. They have been phenomenal at bringing together the now twenty-strong team of editors and writers to produce this edition of Life and Loss I look forward to reading future publications!

We hope this edition reminds you to appreciate the beautiful and tragic moments of life and loss, and perhaps disproves the Japanese proverb of eshajori People meet, always part, but may meet again

Chloe Levieux

Editor's Note.

Welcome to the 5th edition of the Literary Harrovian! In this edition, we explored the theme of “Life and Loss” - inspired by the word “eshajōri” - exposing the emotions of the heart, mind, and soul through one of life’s most profound and pervasive encounters

The liminal space between life and loss is one we spend sleepless nights trying to navigate. Many that have come before us have spent their lives trying to make sense of it all - something that seems so simple yet so hard to grasp. Each individual that has lived, that is living, and that will live, will have seminal moments in which they discover what it means to be alive and what it means to diedefined by their own dispositions, idiosyncrasies, and beliefs.

Each piece in this collection is an invitation to reflect on the bittersweet nature of existence, regardless of it being the loss of a loved one, the loss of identity, or the loss of innocence, our encounters with despair and heartache have the capacity to change us in both beautiful and terrifying ways. Characterised by both sorrow and joy, our journeys prevail through misery, introspection, and healing.

It is our hope that these stories will inspire you to reflect upon your own journeys of life and loss, and for eshajōri to bring understanding and inspiration to all our readers. Lastly, we want to thank all members and contributors of the Literary Harrovian for your incredibly devoted and hard work in putting together this edition.

Enjoy reading!

Prinda and Jessica

In a climate where we encounter loss so frequently and diversely, it is almost impossible to compile every individual experience of loss into one single edition Here’s to trying

Humanity knows loss well: we feel it in our bones when beloved things come to an end and surrender to it when it unexpectedly hits us where it hurts most Everybody loses to something at least once in their lifetime Whilst the popular portrayal of loss in mainstream media is of an overwhelming force greater than life itself, loss can sometimes take a different form in a lingering numbness that seeps subtly into our daily lives It is an essential part of the human experience: to love, to lose, and to do it all over again.

With this edition, we aim to depict life and loss in all its raw, multifaceted glory. Writers approach this theme from various different angles - In Catherine Hu’s thought-provoking essay Skulls, stoicism and existential dread, she contemplates the mortality of man; Ashley Tam explores the complexities of extramarital relationships in her poem when we fall asleep:, successfully illustrating the feeling of losing a loved one (“i fall asleep // and i lose you before i wake again”). Several submissions highlight the transient nature of life, as summarised wonderfully in Maia Lui-Schwille’s poem - Nothing Gold Can Stay. Every piece is packed with heart-wrenching emotion and hand-delivered to you, the reader.

Of course, this could only be made possible with the help and support of the Literary Harrovian team. I would like to give special thanks to my fellow Senior Editors, Jessica and Prinda, for dedicating your time to the creation of this edition. I love you guys :D Thank you for partaking in this tumultuous journey with me.

Happy reading, Nicole

photography by Nicole Lau

and

war love

By Levia Lau

A sweet summer afternoon, I hear my brothers and sisters talking of love, and I ask them what it is

They laugh and say I am too young to understand, that I must live a few more summers before it occurs to me but I think

I am starting to see it

In the morning song of the red-bellied bullfinch; so delicate against the rough bark

In the ceaseless descent of waterfalls; that slither so effortlessly into quiet streams

In the faint whisper of my mother’s heartbeat; sleeping next to me in the dark. But there is one thing, that is agreed upon by all the fawns as we talk about love: Love is kind and beautiful, the thing that keeps us alive.

I hear the elders telling tales of war and battles. No words were spoken; I asked no questions even when I did not understand, because I understood enough. I saw the tracks in their fur as they limped back home; dripping with the colour of danger. The chips in their antlers that never healed; each marking a signature of stronger beasts. The wild-eyed doe cornered by growls of hungry fate; hopeless panic rippling its way down her dappled fur. We did not talk about war, not in early spring, or deep winter.

War is cruel and quick to strike, and that is why it hurts.

A quiet summer night, And war headed straight for me. There may have been a thousand hounds at its feet, For it roared the equivalent of their combined growls. Painted all over with the colour of fallen prey, Not a limp in its stride, running for hours, Its eyes blazed harsh with the glare of a hundred suns, And the rush of cold air, as it was no place for warmth.

I was cornered on the open road

As I stared into the harsh eyes of war and the world exploded into light.

I couldn’t see anything but I felt my gentle heartbeat And whispered words distant Like a songbird. I smiled Maybe this is the healing touch of love Come to save me from the terrible monster they call war.

I do not understand war, but the elders say I’ll meet it soon enough. They say war is easy to recognise:

photography by Chloe Levieux

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.

photography by Nicole Lau

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

after my body perishes by

Angelina Lu

After my body perishes, leave me to the trees

To the animals, to the insects, to the brisk summer breeze

Let my body soak in the essence of nature

Refreshing my adolescence, my body at the end of its senescence

Let my soul rest amongst the jays

Eternally free, forever guaranteed

When nature surrounds me, my body and soul are at ease

Oh, dear lover, I beg of you

Paint me with the stars

With the moon, with the aurora borealis

Paint me with all that I’ve ever known

All that Mother Nature has grown

Oh, dear Sun, I cannot help but envy you

You glow unlike no other

Almost like my second mother

Sharing nothing but warmth

Regardless of all my thorns

After my body perishes, let my soul live on

In the rich soil, in the passing waves, in the sage trees

I don’t mind

For all I know is that I would rather be blind

Than suffer the entirety of the world

Deprived of nature’s life

breathless

by June Wang

The morning sun dawdled across the horizon, pink fading into pale orange I sat up and moved lethargically to my desk, my mind still tangled in the last remains of a dream. Eyelids heavy, I logged into my first class, muted myself and angled my camera above my collarbone, lest anyone see the pyjamas that morphed into my school uniform.

But there was a shift today Or rather, last night Snowflake after snowflake had fallen amidst their silent song, like a great gathering; they had found a new home atop the naked trees and the slanted roofs. They had gathered on the sides of streets and on the frozen surface of the lake nearby, where fish were dreaming quietly beneath a sheet of ice. The sky had finally let out a sigh.

But I had shifted too

The autumn term started with me and a computer At first, the benefits of home-learning glistened like sweet honey that shone under the summer sun: sleeping in, eating in class, skipping Phys Ed. It was a new chapter of our lives, a coming-of-age story for teens who desperately needed one And yet, I found the routine of each day a wry mockery of the last Class, class, and more class Silence, silence, and even more silence It was impossible to put meaning intolife, to ‘rage against the dying of the light’, to try to keep in contact with friends. The longer I stayed mute, the harder it became to say anything. I had let myself drown in the solitude.

Slowly, the ravishing summer sun gave way to greyer autumn days, and everything felt arduous Working, reading. Even waking up seemed tedious. I saw myself standing on a calendar, small and feeble compared to what laid ahead. In front of me, the days stretched over rows of white calendar boxes, except all the plans had been forgotten of, and so square after square of infinite blankness awaited me, occasionally separated by the shaft of sleep

It felt silly to even think about getting up. Silly and tiring. ***

Greedily, it kept taking away more A few weeks into October, Grandpa died That night, we did a special prayer for him, holding a candlestick in our palms I looked at the others: their flames blinked in and out, the colourful wax weeping yellow through blue through green. A circle of soft light glowed upon their faces, flushed and flame-like, as tears dribbled down one by one... by one... one...one.

I tried breathing quietly, but there wasn’t enough air Eventually, I had to take a big inhale No one moved I didn’t think they were even trying to breathe at all

The next day, we went on a family trip to the lake A humid drench hung in the air, as though the sky was holding its breath, and a bank of clouds smothered the blue with a depressing grey The cool breeze cleared my sinus and shot through my body Northward, where the forest laid, the last leaves of autumn tethered on to their mothers, afraid of the fall. For from up there, the distance to earth gaped large and empty. Parts of the lake had already frozen up, the rest hardly moving, with ripples forming small foam-lipped eddies around the shores. Mother nature was quiet. I sat on the lumpish rocks and felt the icy water bite into my ankles, my flesh wincing in pain.

My mind wandered to Grandpa’s death, the exact moment of it I imagined an ocean of calmness in his mind, his last exhale a whoosh, not a sound but a sensation in the air and inside me I imagined this breath, containing all the memories of a lifetime, swirling like smoke, slowly seeping upwards I thought, eventually, it would dissipate into the air around it and the clouds would guide it into the sky

I thought back to when Mom told me about Grandma.

“Honey, Grandma is gone Gone ”

“She’s gone somewhere better A silent ” her tired whispers almost expired “A silent, beautiful place,” she finished She refused to look at me, staring at the ceiling instead But now in my memories I can see them– her eyes They might as well have been hollow for all the emptiness they held

I wondered when we learnt to lose. To lose like this. Or perhaps we never learnt to do it. We were thrown into the pit of grief only to spend our entire lives trying to climb out of it. Every hurt and loss before now felt like a futile joke I cried when I lost my toy; I cried when I first slept alone in the dark; I cried when my brother and I fought And what about now?

“Are we going there too?”

“Someday we all will,” she stopped mid-sentence, as if having said too much already to corrupt my innocence.

No, it wasn’t that I didn’t know to be grateful. For still being alive. For still having somewhat of a family. Instead, it was a gnawing feeling of greed and hatred, poking from within my balloon-like heart The childhood I lost, how I forgot what it felt like to laugh until tears welled up in my eyes, how I no longer could imagine the distantly familiar sound of the low buzz and hum in the school cafeteria Why did no one call this, ‘grief’?

The trees rumbled and shook as a gust of wind shot past them The last of the leaves were blown away; they drifted, swaying side to side, falling languidly like ash.

“Grandma’s just…left. Okay honey?”

This beautifully crafted world of shadows and euphemisms, veiled and closed off from reality How I longed to live in such a place How I longed for it I sobbed and whimpered when I lost the badminton finals at school I didn’t cry when Grandpa died Like a mannequin I stood still as the rest wailed in hurt But not one tear felt forthcoming

Was all this not enough to be labelled grief? What were we if not beings born blooming with life, only to lose it all?

The water at my feet drew back and rippled forwards again like a waving hand.

I never wanted anything more than to live in a world of lies To dip into a pool of dark ether and be married to the shadows within it To be hidden from the world, like a foetus in the state of non-being I was tired of running in an existence that resembled too much of a murky dream: no matter how hard I ran, I always ended up here Nowhere All alone

“Is Grandpa going to go visit her?’”

The sky was a vault of breaths Last breaths

“Maybe,” she said, and a fresh new wave of concern washed over her lonely eyes

We dimmed like a thousand fireflies in the night

when we fall asleep:

we lay awake limbs tangled together, panting breaths in perfect synchronisation

i long for this each week, when we flirt over aged wine, prance around barefoot to crackling jazz, our happiness an honest, craving feeling.

you fall asleep

soft rumbles of snores wafting through the room, your face a delicate portrait of naïvety and innocence

i immerse in the boundless ocean of my mind where i soak in the calming yet impossible dreams of our future

i fall asleep.

i try to fight the alluring temptation of exhaustion

i try and try

i try because i know you will hurry off at the first ray of light in the morning

i try because i cannot stand the gnawing regret of not bathing in your presence every breathing moment

i hold your hand as if it will keep you from going, but i wake to only myself present

you love the rules too much you love them more than you love me, you think our love is not worth the sacrifice, you think our love is incomparable to money and duty and family your wife

i hate those rules, but i cope for a part of you every week i hope this changes. but every week, we lay awake you fall asleep

i fall asleep

and i lose you before i wake again

The Left Behinds

by Prinda Li

Staring out the translucent glass window into the rustling maple trees blankly, a crisp knock on the redwood door disrupts Daisy’s chain of emotionless thoughts. Lurching along with the help of her walking stick, Daisy stumbled step by step to the door and turned the doorknob. Against the metal, green veins popped through the wrinkled skin of her hand, covered by flat brown spots. Around her ring finger, a thin gold ring, almost rusting on the edge after 50 years, had indented her flesh.

As the door opened, a chilly wind rushed in, brushing Daisy’s face It brought along a familiar face, every strand of once shiny brunette hair now silvers to the roots

Daisy gasped, “Shirley!”

“My old pal, how have things been?" Shirley flung her arms wide open.

“It's been so long since we've last met! It's so…” Drenched in a sea of memories, Shirley rattled on without noticing Daisy’s uncontrollably escaping attention as the past and present began to blur together

Familiar face, familiar memories. The tinkling of the spoon as it hit the sides of the teacup while Daisy slowly stirred her ginger fruit tea mingled and merged with the unceasing noises from Shirley, hypnotising her to the memories. Brooding over an unfair future that was denied her, brooding over a marriage and a happy family that was robbed from her, brooding over unlocked memories of him.

In 1941, maybe it was the rebellious hormones of a girl in her early twenties that drove her to avoid her involuntary marriage, or maybe it was to escape her boring life - Daisy volunteered to join the U S military as a nurse Despite the countless yelling and scolding from her parents who tried to stop her, Daisy fled with Shirley in the middle of the dark and gloomy night, encouraged by heavy raindrops and splashing noise. Water filled up her footsteps and promised no return.

They iced the wounded limbs of soldiers from training, made medicine for those who caught colds in the fields, and fed the sick hot porridge. It was easier than she had expected as she was an experienced nurse, but at least it was different from her routines at home. Her new life began in Pearl Harbour.

It was a scorching summer day in June when he came into her life Supported by two men on each side, a soldier limped into the hospital lobby with blood flowing from a nasty wound on his thigh. Though the handsome soldier managed to crack jokes, Daisy homed in on the tiny droplets of sweat emerging on his forehead, and in the middle of complimenting her almond eyes, the soldier passed out. When he roused, he was restrained in the hospital bed, with his leg in a stiff cast. No matter how he protested, he was not allowed to move.

“Strict doctor's orders,” she said

“Not even for a stroll in the gardens?”

“No.”

“Not even for a walk in the corridor?”

“No Not even to the washroom ”

“What?”

“That’s what bedpans are for.”

He grew quiet.

“Theoretically, you could go outside on a wheelchair if accompanied by a nurse in a week ”

“Would you please accompany me, Madam Nurse?” The slight spark in his eyes made stillborn the no Daisy was set on giving him."

She said yes

And that’s how she spent every afternoon with Joseph after dinner from 6 to 7 together in the garden, talking about their lives before joining the military.

Over the course of the next few months - months that flitted by like fireflies in the hot and sticky nights that passed on the island, Daisy delivered Joseph’s porridge and changed his cast. As Daisy carefully applied medicine on Joseph's leg and wrapped it with bandage, she was aware of Joseph squinting at her with concentration and seriousness that made her stutter with self-consciousness. Stealing glances at him, she saw a sparkling fire shimmer in his determined eyes She finally sat at the foot of his bed, faced him, and smiled This night, along with almost all the evenings that followed, always ended up with lingering eyes that spoke louder than words. Glued to each other, they were unable to look anywhere else.

Yet, there still came the day that Joseph had to be discharged once his leg mended Though he tried his hardest to mimic shudders of pain and wails of anguish as the doctors examined his leg, it was time for him to leave. With her arms paused in mid wave as he finally turned and walked away from the hospital, Daisy felt her passion and joy drip to the ground, rolling like drops of rain downhill after him, as she witnessed his silhouette becoming more and more blurry and finally disappearing She felt a fog blocking her consciousness and returned to work and performed her duties with mechanical precision and emotionlessness. Anything to go through the motions.

After a month of social isolation where Daisy went straight to her dormitory after her shifts, she heard him call her name It was just another illusion She ignored the voice and focused on washing her dishes until she looked up after hearing her name being called again and again. Daisy jumped to her feet dropping the metal tools she was cleaning and caught Joseph’s eyes at the exact second as time froze.

The crinkles around Joseph’s eyes were sparkling again He walked towards Daisy slowly while his hands clutched what seemed like a crumpled paper that he tried to flatten, he showed the paper with his sketch in front of Daisy’s clear, hazel eyes. “I sketched this when I was in the hospital, and I thought I’d give it to you... It's crumpled. Sorry.”

It was her He drew her while she changed his cast He drew her to exact likeness, immaculately capturing every unique detail of Daisy in a simple pencil sketch. Every strand of hair represented her charisma. A smile back on her face again, she told him how much she liked the sketch.

On another day Joseph was at the hospital to “visit a friend”, while holding a bouquet of daisy flowers in his hands.

Daisy cleared her throat. “Where’s your friend?”

Joseph waved the bouquet through the air. “Oh, around ”

On this excuse, Joseph came back day after day while holding daisy flowers. One day, Shirley passed a bouquet of daisy flowers to Daisy, following Joseph’s instructions. The golden and beautifully patterned pistil and angelic white petals bonded together was the most gorgeous and pleasing thing Daisy ever saw. She found a tiny piece of folded paper inside the petals,Daisy opened it and read out “Please look outside your window ” Daisy rushed to the glass pane, and there she saw the whole nursing staff applauding beneath her balcony, as Joseph went down on one knee and proposed exactly the way she imagined in her dreams.

There was talk of the war in Europe and rumours of mass killings in Germany Yet, none of that worried Daisy She was far away in America, and very much in love. Twisting the simple gold band on her middle finger, she thought about how he promised he would get her another ring once the war was over. She told him she couldn’t care less about diamonds as long as they could start a big family.

Then the attack came

All Daisy could remember was hearing the disastrous emergency alarm howling throughout the hallways, with blood-covered soldiers flooding in the emergency room Panicked and confused, doctors and nurses rushed down the hallway, and amidst the twitter of the head doctors, Daisy could hear words like “attacked,” “Japanese,” and “war.” Her heart gave a sudden lurch. She silently prayed to God to keep him safe.

She saw countless bruises and wounds, all blurry and mixed with rust-smelling, red-black blood that covered exposed skin Her hands shook and trembled uncontrollably, and as if bees invaded her brain, Daisy was unable to think rationally, or even to think of what to do next After performing emergency brain surgery on one of the soldiers, Daisy came out of the surgery room exhausted.

Then through the nearby glass door, she saw Joseph in another surgery room. He wailed in pain as blood rushed out of his vessels and body.

There was too much blood loss It was too late to save him She watched each of his breaths become weaker and shorter and eventually to none, dying in despair Sweat or tears, it was hard to recognize She scratched and screamed and all she could remember was liquid drenching her until her vision was so blurry that she could only see shiny white light, and her eyes involuntarily closing...

“Daisy. Daisy. Daisy? Are you feeling alright?” Shirley inquired with a look of concern, yanking Daisy back from her whirlpool of memories.

“Yes, I am just tired from all the sudden excitement It is good to see you ”

Unconvinced, Shirley could sense that something was off

“Well, Daisy, I actually came to give you this.” Shirley reached for her purse and pulled out a stained envelope.

Daisy’s heart skipped a beat at the familiar sight of it. She could recognize the signature on the corner of the envelope anywhere, anytime Her brain barely registered how Shirley went to a garage sale of a war veteran and found this among a sea of other wars left behind She must have picked it from the trash after Daisy threw it out in drunken anger from her ship back in 1955

Shirley did not stay long and started her journey home. Closing the door behind her friend, Daisy collapsed in the doorway, clutching the envelope.

After stepping foot off that ship, she decided to get on with her life. Locking off her memories, she refused to continue her profession as a nurse and became a secretary until the day she retired during the 1990s

She never married Never had the big family she dreamed of Left behind, she was all alone, a solitary figure sitting on the red leather sofa reading the newspaper without him. Gathering her strength to pull out Joseph’s sketch of her, she stared at it for the longest time, curled up in a foetal position, and let down the dam of tears.

It was sunrise before she moved. Standing up, she tenderly took the fragile paper to her room, where she framed it and hung it on the wall adjacent to her bed Lying down and closing her eyes, she felt a wave of relief released from her consciousness, and she let it in She would be joining him soon Though it was a long and difficult journey, her final chapter was about to begin

At the appearance of the glimmering morning twilight, Daisy laughed out loud, and slept dreamlessly for the first time in sixty years.

photography by Prinda Li

photography by Prinda Li

Leaving was my form of self-protection, my way of protecting him from my past. There was no other way to accomplish it or to give myself a chance to fix this into something decent, something normal, something pretty And when that happened, the cycle repeated itself Leaving was not a choice but a duty

The reflection stared at me, but the glass and the darkness didn’t get me quite right, blurring all the details. My main features were there: the pale glow of my skin and the wide-set dark blue eyes that weren’t mine alone. 'You look so much like your father', I used to hear.

The girl staring back at me had long black hair that was looped in a tangled, messy bun that fell over her neck, loose waves shooting out as a result of her carelessness Those eyes that once looked deeply alive, were now sunken and flat The girl had plump lips that were so pallid to the point where it looked like peeling white paint and pulled down at the edges. She wore her mourning black like a second skin. I swallowed; the girl swallowed.

I stared at my skinless fingers, averting my eyes from the mirror that reflected a girl I barely recognised. My bitten nails were sore and frozen. Blood dried in every crease and crevice.

I looked to my left to gaze greedily at the white-capped waves Clouds of gulls were wheeling and crying as they ascended into the sky As the seabed swapped the salty brine for oceanic air, I saw the beach rise from the lacy waves.

I watched as the gulls turned from heaps of crowding wings to tossed papers in a storm and flashes of white in the grey, toppling as they struggled against the gale. Beneath them, the sea rose as great mounds, as fury in the form of water, boisterous and unforgiving.

The silver hues were molten silver, blanketed with the end that was yet to come The passengers braced themselves I braced myself, as we all figured already, the end was never pretty. Nothing was to be said; nothing was to be heard. The occasional cry from a child or a gull wheeling above was the only break in the oppressive silence.

But then the agony hit me. I felt myself growing heavy, my stomach slowly giving out. The world was twirling, twirling and twirling. I felt my breath shallow as seconds went by, a throbbing ache pulsating across my muscles I staggered backwards, and with just one step back, my body crumpled down like a puppet being released from its strings I placed my palm on my stomach, caressing the home of my future years to come

I looked to my side as my back braced against the wooden boards of the drenched floor. I watched as the waves hauled to a final stop.

It was 12:05. The ship had finally reached the shore.

“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace.”

Oscar Wilde

farewell

by Zoe Wong

The time has come.

Light fades from the sky Night falls, marking the end. The wind dies Darkness has become an unusual friend

My beloved, keep faith

Remember: where there is great grief once stood great love

We are rivers flowing in the direction we choose, my dear, and at the end Of the journey all merges with the sea Whilst life must end, my love won’t have to. My soul won’t leave you – I will coalesce with the deep blue, Rise amongst golden rays, present pillowy patterns; Whatever you need to see.

The time has come

So on days when the grief gets so intense that silvery streams slide down Your face, when there is no oxygen in the air But everyone else breathes in just fine, Sobs are stuck in your throat, Nihilism, no Hope, You cry out, Face in distorted distress, Wails of guilt and torment

As you yearn for Time to be kinder

Remember: the sorrow of death is the proof of love

Mourn no more, lament no more, Celebrate the collection of memories that we call Life … The time has come

I enter the final phrase, Of the final sentence and the final chapter Here sounds my final blessèd heart, it is a beating drum –A joyous, youthful, ambitious drum, Sounding proudly in its last performance to the melody of life! I hear them calling. Lost brothers and sisters. The beats start to slow

My child, the time has come

Farewell, farewell, farewell

Death happens in the blink of an eye, there one second, gone the next.

I stand in the sterile bleak room, next to the love of my life. My cheeks wet with tears, my head thunders with one constant repeating thought: Don’t blink.

I cannot, will not miss it, not a second of her beauty, a second of her kindness, a second of her laugh, her smile. Maybe if I never let an opportunity arise for her to slip away, maybe, just maybe, she’ll be okay.

My heart beats like thunder seeking to annihilate the world. The only thing keeping me in this realm of the living is the slow steady beep of the machine. She’s alive, she's alive, she’s alive. Maybe if I say it enough it will stay that way.

But it doesn’t

Doctors rush in as the steady beat of her heart stops. I fall to my knees with her hand still in mine, but I can feel the thumps in her wrist cease. My tears spill over, and as they declare her death, I can feel my own heart being shredded, a gaping hole left inside me.

I am empty; I am nothing.

Iris Hemberg

photography by Chloe Levieux

lifeisafragilething

byNgaKiuHo

Life is a fragile thing; A beating heart, an unsteady pulse. Life is all about proportion. Life is short. Life is measured in flashes and moments, in seconds and instants. Sometimes it moves slowly. Sluggish and lethargic. Sometimes it moves swiftly like it’s trying desperately to catch up. But it’s always moving. And it runs out for everyone. If Life is a beating heart, Loss is a throbbing wound. Loss makes grief so much more evident, makes it hang thick in the air like smog, poisonous and suffocating. Loss is a vast ocean. A vast body of grief, flowing and messy with currents of sorrow.

It pounds against your chest. It catches you in the throat. It shreds your torso, creating gashes upon gashes

It makes every breath an agony. Loss is everywhere. It is coming for everyone.

the greatestloss in life

by Jessica Hicks

Death is not the greatest loss in life, Not the shortage of breath, Not the stab of a knife, Well, not the death of yourself, in the least,

Loss is but that small, stinging feeling, Which over time, is slowly healing, The unbearable pain will last forever, The first hearing of it, denial and terror,

Your insides will forever be burning and aching, For from the death of a loved one, There is no escaping.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Maia Lui-Schwille

Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. My grandfather who I recently lost, Was golden to us but at a cost. He was the first flower in every summer, The one and only golden wonder. But flower subsided to leaf, So I sank to grief

Now he lays in silence, His gravestone, to us it’s simply priceless. As dawn passes down to day, proof in stillness nothing gold can stay.

photographybyPrindaLi

“We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.”

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

lifeislimited byKamilSiu

Life is limited

Everyone knows we’re primitive you’re lucky if you’re alive

Or I think you died

I saw you come to life at the hospital

And arrived at your funeral

Life and death

Full of emotions

Sometimes happy sometimes sad

Think carefully what is good and bad

Life is full of regret

Death might be happy

If there is no purpose to live

Victory is great

But what about the loss

Sometimes losing is winning

Betrayal leads to friendship

Sometimes it’s good to escape

But you might get collected by Death

To start a new life

TheLifeIHad

byJamesKeady

The life I had Was all I had. The birds twittering, The trees dancing

But life is full of surprises. When you least expect it Death arrives.

Trees die when Lies rise. The game is over when My life is over.

Trees die when Time dries.

Darkness rises uncontrollably It overtakes us

No matter how hard you try It keeps growing Soon enough

We’ll all be alone Lonely in this cold, dark dimension.

Those who died Look from heaven above Watching every move

Nobody knows What’s going to happen Next.

photography by Chloe Levieux

by Haruka Xin by Haruka Xin

once life, now loss once life, now loss

One time it used to be, One time it used be, as wonderful as it could be: as as it could be:

The bright happy flowers, The bright happy flowers, smiling at the sun. smiling at the sun The newborn birds, The newborn birds, chirping in their nests. chirping in their nests

The lush green trees, The lush green trees, filling the mountains. the mountains

The cool spring air, The cool spring air, blowing across the grass. blowing across the grass

But then darkness came, But then darkness came, and the place turned cold: and the place turned cold:

The dead murky flowers, The dead murky flowers, stared down at the dirt, stared down at the dirt, and the ageing birds, and the ageing birds, with no energy to fly with no energy to fly.

The leafless trees, The leafless trees, quivered in the wind, quivered in the wind, and the ice-cold rain and the ice-cold rain splattered against the dead bodies splattered against the dead bodies.

Oncetherewasharmony

by Aarya Kotecha

Once there was harmony, It could be seen under the vast blue sky

Soft white dandelions danced through the air

Like ballerinas leaping across a stage.

The warm, cherry sun bathed all below in a Celestial golden light.

Mother nature’s whispers rippled through the grass

Like schoolgirls sharing secrets

A looming olive-green tree stood

Firm in the centre of lush, wiry, grass

The serene breathtaking landscape

Brought peace and beauty to all who cared.

Broken.

All was broken

Tranquility lost.

Hope shattered.

As flocking white birds flew overhead, Screams and screeches filled the vast, Blue sky.

This was the final warning Darkness.

All darkness

Darkness descended over the wiry, fresh Grass.

Mother nature was breathing its last breath

I scrambled up the ancient oak tree. Which was once the core of nature. One last hope.

I grabbed the vibrant lone branch. This was it GONE

photographybyStellaLiu

doomsday

by Jessica Keady

Why are we

Beholden to our Mortality, Enveloped by our gratitude for life, Calcified by our need to live

We embrace modernity

As if there is a semblance of Hope,

When it is polluted with transgressions. Saturated with villainy. Tarnished by malefactions.

We walk around each day

Unbothered and oblivious, As if hate does not permeate all around us Marring our understanding of reality

Leaving us in a cloud of Malice. As if our actions are not spurred by Narcissism

Disguised by a coy smile, Corrupting our intentions. As if pretence will somehow make everything Better.

We have lost all sense of Humanity

What it means to be, Human.

Our tender, loving hearts desecrated, Demolished into delicate pieces of Poison.

Eternally fractured.

So, as we hurtle towards calamity My existence becomes obsolete. I am useless In a world, Oppressed.

When I Die, Let my eulogy be rhapsodic. Bring out the symphonies, And burn me with the lilies. Do not lament my death, For I have transcended

Imperfection.

photography by Nicole Lau

Poem and art

by Zi Yan Huang

As I lie in bed on yet another sleepless night, I think. I think of life, of loss, and of death. In the late hours of the night, or perhaps even the early hours of the morning, when nothing is alive, I think of impermanence, isolation and frailty. Accompanied by only the faint buzz of electricity to anxious thoughts, I think of death and what it means to die.

I think of how every person on this planet will one day experience loss, be it the loss of a keepsake, the loss of hair, or even the tragic loss of a loved one. Perhaps some have already experienced the emptiness left by loss, the cold numbness of something that is no longer there.

I stare at the overly bright pixels of my phone screen. The number flicks from 3:52 to 3:53 in the blink of an eye, and just like that I grow anxious about the mere passing of seconds. Time will come and go just as swiftly and harshly as the seasons do, and one day, we’ll face the epitome of isolation, misery and loss — seized by the ghostly hands of death itself.

With growing alarm, I ask myself: why does humankind have such a grotesque fixation on death? It’s a morbid thought, but I think about how one day our chests will compress and we’ll breathe our last breath, and just like that, our brief stay on earth will cease to be.

I think of a phrase that I once came across.

Memento mori: remember that you will die.

By Catherine Hu

Skulls, stoicism and existential dread

It’s a pessimistic idea, but it’s one that has existed alongside human life since the beginning of civilization.

I think of how it has shown itself as erratic streaks of ink on the scrolls and letters of great stoics. Seneca’s letters full of musings about death meditate on our impermanent nature. “Consider how ephemeral and mean all mortal things are,” Marcus Aurelius invites us to ponder. Epictetus went as far as saying that when enjoying the pleasures of life, we are simply distracting ourselves from our one shared guarantee of death. ‘Memento mori’ weaves itself into the thoughts of philosophers both past and present. Whether you find the Stoics of classical antiquity dramatic or not, it’s clear that for some, our fear of finitude was a driving force behind culture flourishing.

I think of masterpieces in museums, with delicate brushstrokes hiding the reminder of ‘Memento mori’ amongst them. As ivory pigments arrange themselves into skulls, and dull pinks and green take on the form of a wilted flower, they carry with them a foreboding, sinking doom. Still-life images that capture scenes of clocks, guttering candles, and even soap bubbles, also capture the fleeting nature of time and the seemingly futile vanities of life.

When I think of death, in my head I hear Mozart’s Requiem. I am reminded of the haunting voices of the chorus, the story it tells, and the everpresent idea of death as ‘Memento Mori’ rises and falls with the notes. What now is nothing more than a pessimistic notion of death once flowed with the singing of a requiem, serving as a reminder that judgement day would one day arrive.

‘Memento mori’ inserts itself throughout history and time, choosing to stick itself to scholars or buildings. Or perhaps just like now, in more spontaneous moments on sleepless nights just like this, as a human like me lies in their mortal glory, it chooses to strike. Perhaps while dwelling in angsty feelings, someone somewhere shares the same thoughts and feelings as me

Despite my naivety and complete lack of understanding of philosophy, I have come to the conclusion that perhaps death and life are just two sides of the same coin. Since the beginning of time, death has woven itself within the branches of human nature, and it has come to the point where one simply cannot exist without the other.

It’s disturbing. It’s an uncomfortable idea that we must live comfortably with, whether that’s by turning this foreign idea over and over in your head, or simply just approaching each day with an upbeat grin and a ‘YOLO.’ In the end, life, loss and death are one and the same, with pessimistic reminders of our mortality being a constant in our lives whether we know it or not.

But why should that bother us? If loss and life must exist in harmony, then in true ‘carpe diem’ fashion, just let them. As I turn over my pillow to the cold side and stare out the window, I think to myself: why does it matter that we are impermanent beings?

Humankind’s fixation doesn’t bother me, so you shouldn’t let it bother you either.

Death lurks: what does it matter?

THE FINAL DEATH

By Jessica Cheng

I needed to kill her. The emperor had left me no choice; his orders were as clear as the blue sky hanging over me. I was to find her, kill her, and then scatter her ashes so that her soul would never find its way back to this world. So, like the coward I was, I obeyed. I extinguished my only source of light, my other half; I killed a part of my own soul. Now she was gone, and gone too was the dignity and pride I once held in the palms of my hands. Slicing my cheeks, the wind picked up the last remaining ashes dusted across my fingers and took away the last physical trace I had of her.

My eyes snap open. The gut-wrenching reencounter of my greatest mistake still haunts me. Even whilst I’m dead, I cannot escape the constant, unceasing regret, no matter how hard I try. Until every ounce of hope runs dry, I will have to remain in this deep, dark, dead cavern - designed to imprison the Lost Souls It was filled to the brink with fallen ghouls outstretching their translucent, frail hands, desperately trying to redeem themselves from their past sins. They were desperate for another chance at life, desperate to erase the unforgettable memories of the past.

I look up at the cracked ceiling hovering above me as I once again take in my familiar surroundings. The marks of ancient drawings - over hundreds of years old - still linger on the cracked walls: illustrations of marriage and happiness and love, depicting couples holding their eternal partner’s hand and people who have successfully accomplished the impossible: being together forever. These engravings dangle in front of my eyes, always mocking me, from dawn to dusk and over and over again, reminding me of what could have been, of what my past could have looked like. If only I hadn’t been so egotistical and power-hungry; if only my greed did not betray my morals, tempting me into risking a life for mere clumps of metal and rocks

As soon as I suck in a breath, the dust around me immediately suffocates me. The dry, humid air chokes me; it claws at my throat like angry vipers starved of its poison. All of a sudden, I am overcome with the desperation to leave this place, this prison. The little spark of hope in my chest extinguishes, leaving behind a mere wisp of smoke. With each passing day, I feel my despair sinking deeper and deeper. I know that one approaching day, there will only be a void of remorse and sorrow left.

I peer down at my ghostly handswhich are as translucent as the crystals I once owned - in anguish. My once elegant hands, now reduced to clear, sharp glass, stare back at me in disdain, as if criticising me for all my wrongdoings. I look down at my clenched fists in hatred; these are the very hands that had destroyed her soul, her heart, and her life, and my very own essence in doing so.

My fingers are surrounded with a light, crimson aura, gleaming and glittering. It is as if they have been covered in a twinkling, scarlet beam of moonlight. However, the truth is not so pleasant - the constant shimmer of light encircling my entire body isn’t that of the gradient moon, it is of the blood of the woman I once loved.

I sob into my blood-stained hands, grieving for all that I had recklessly thrown away. All of that gone just because of my unforgiving greed for glory Now, what I want, what I need, cannot be bought, not even by the reddest of rubies and the rarest of jade and the most flawless of diamonds. If I could go back three hundred years and undo everything, I would. But the gods do not allow second chances; they do not allow mortals chances to redeem themselves The gods simply let you drown in your own regrets, with your silent cries of agony echoing across the world, slipping into the heavens above and the hells below.

Many innocent, naive people of the living say that dying is a gift, an escape to peace and tranquillity They believe that death is a void of nothing, someplace meant to make you feel nothing. I distinctly recall a time long ago when I foolishly assumed the same The truth is that death is a hideous creature, constantly wrestling with your inner mind every day to remind you of all the mistakes you have made Some may have fewer demons haunting them in the afterlife, but others are so tortured by the reminders of their crimes that their conscience starts to fill with splinters of regret and grief, until finally, their (our) souls start to break piece by piece, all the unkempt guilt gradually building up in our heads, begging for release.

When everything becomes too much, that’s when the final death begins taking place.

Each passing day is more arduous than the one before; each sundown takes another piece of my soul, another piece of my already-fragmented heart. With a bitter sigh, I begin to accept the long-awaiting fact that I will soon meet my death - again