LIBERTAS ANGST
Vol. 29, No.4
Table of Contents
Window (Cover)
Table of Contents
Mystery Stairs
Lust Gone in Consequence Stars
Goodnight Boy Sunday is an involuntary rebirth
Untitled Poem and Painting
Where Lost Things Go Running Late (Oatmeal Hymn)
3 a.m. Drive There is an anxiety that cannot be
Teagan Crye
Teagan Crye
Anonymous
Cole Matthews
Courtney Lassiter
Elham Said
Regan Harvey
Ava McKinney
Teagan Crye
Clara Oyanguren
Nate Green
Nhi Tran
Teagan Crye
Layout Editors
Stars
Cole Matthews
The air is cool
Somehow,
I always end up the fool
The macrocosm is so infinite
And to us it is ambivalent
We feel like every issue we face
Is the end of the human race
How people change and sway
Maybe I’ll never find a way
The path in front of me
Will never set me free
It is clouded and faint
And my mind is so quaint,
That it is nearly humorous
In this grand universe
Filled with stars
That you can’t see from bars
They have no cares
And don’t answer my prayers
But here I sit
Never throwing a fit
Staring up at them knowing
That at this point I should be growing
Goodnight boy
Cole Matthews
Existence is real
Every pain and joy I feel
The brush of my fingers through your hair
Reminds me that you’ll always be there
And it’s best to keep existing
Because there’s no use resisting
Though life may seem an illusion
For some it’s pure delusion
For others true misfortune
Lies in the bonds they’ve broken
Impermanence is not impertinence
From the universe that exists in us
but each moment we share
Shows at times God can be fair
Each of your seconds I get is another secret well kept
Though my time shall end
I hope to make it worthwhile to spend
Sunday is an involuntary rebirth
Courtney Lassiter
I do not ask to overwork, to rest, to unforget, to excavate the sins of Saturday’s past and the ugly mask of Friday’s face, but I sit and think about the world and drink coffee by the light of a window and scribble down meanings in tattoo ink on my skin.
The world is less ordinary, not so boring after the weekend after the weekend I found myself in. I’ll take her lessons and pen them until I should not write.
I can only learn through my own self-grace; Could I give this another try?
In the gallery of life, two paintings hang, One whispers, “Hope persists through darkest night.” The other, two ghosts, in each other’s pang, Embrace, a love that transcends beyond sight.
Loneliness echoes through the empty hall, Where hearts once beat in sync, now lost in space. Yet in their embrace, ghosts recall, The warmth of love, the solace of embrace.
For when the canvas fades to gray, And memories blur, like shadows in the rain, It’s in the arms of kindness we find our way, To mend the bonds we’ve let slip away in vain.
So let us heed the art’s silent plea, To cherish the love we hold dear today, For in the end, it’s the connections we see, That paint life’s canvas in hues of love’s array.
The 3 a.m. Drive
Clara Oyanguren
The wind rushing through my hair, the city’s bright lights, and the night’s comforting presence. Nothing beats the sensation of a 3 am drive and the feeling of my hands on the steering wheel in full control of the course with my feet pushing the pedal. I could still smell the burger and fries I had for lunch today. I went to Shake Shack and got my burger and fries with a Diet Coke like every Friday night. I tried to cover the smell with a Christmas tree air freshener. You know, one of those you see in those ads all the time. I needed my comfort meal after the day I had.
I was walking down the hallway after Econ when my classmate Louis pushed me into my locker as I put my books away. He grabbed my backpack and threw it into the trash. I had everything in there. All of my books and notebooks were filled with my thoughts. I was used to the taunts and rude comments about my speech impediment and my appearance before but I never expected it to reach this level. I knew my stutter bothered people, I get it, who wants to wait an extra 45 seconds for someone to finish a sentence? Who wants to play detective and figure out what I’m trying to say in every single conversation? I know I wouldn’t. The buildup of years of taunting got to me; this was the last straw. I felt my knees give up and my back slide toward the floor. I start sobbing. Why did I have to start crying? That’s when they all laughed and pointed at me. And I saw an arm move towards me. That’s when I blacked out. I got home with a black eye and bloody mouth. I tried to piece together what happened after I blacked out. But I couldn’t remember. The small cuts of the everyday taunts cut me open. I felt like an open wound for all to see broken and torn down.
With tears in my eyes, I focused back on my driving. I explored my surroundings. Apartment buildings, restaurants, and parking lots. Street lights. And the shining crescent moons glow. I could see the streets ahead of me filled with little dots of moonlight as Ribs by Lorde started playing on my phone. Music was my escape, my distraction from the world. With each note, I drove faster. My feet pushed the pedal harder as the song crescendoed. The drink you spilled all over me. The notes of the song filled the empty streets as I lowered my window. Lover’s spit left on repeat. My mom and dad let me stay home. It drives you crazy growing old. I started banging on the wheel, drumming along to the beat. It felt like a punching bag in my own world. No bullies, no social pressure to hurry up and speak faster, no need for my brain to catch up with the neurons in my mouth. Driving was the only way I could get any peace. Peace from school and living. I take a breath and enjoy the drive.
I parked at my usual spot, a small little hill with views of beautiful cherry blossom trees outlining the whole city. I found one night in one of my drives. My car broke down one day while I was driving away during the first day of freshman year. That was the first day I realized it wouldn’t be different at this school. I got lost finding my way back, so I walked to find help and found myself there. I’ve been coming back ever since.
The stars lit up the city. The sky screamed with enormity and grandness. I could see the apartment buildings, the office buildings, the restaurants, the schools, and the parks. I left the stereo running and laid on the car’s green trunk. I closed my eyes and let myself be alone. No bullies, no parents. Just me. I would bleed out and cry and remind myself that I’m still alive, I’m still here. Isn’t that more than most people get? At some point, this will all be over. I will survive. I’m not a sad story. I’m strong. I hear Lorde’s voice again, We can talk it so good. We can make it so divine. I closed my eyes and let the music put me to rest. I was at peace.
After what felt like two hours, my breathing calmed down. I no longer wanted to punch someone, or more likely myself. The background lul of the song continues to comfort me, this dream isn’t feeling sweet, we’re reeling through the midnight streets. I didn’t even realize it was raining until my clothes were wet and sticky. Reality never stops for me. Why would it have started then? In a feat of strength, I got out of the trunk and back into the car. I had to make it home at some point. On the drive back home I thought about the power I always give to everyone else. I know deep down everyone has some kind of shit going on but that’s no excuse. That doesn’t mean I need to put up with it. I am tired of feeling useless and like I’ll never get my point across because people who care will listen. They won’t be bothered by those extra 45 seconds. They will want to hear my opinion.
I always want to remember what these drives made me feel. The feeling of wind in my face. The warm glow of the lights. The happiness, peace, and strength they brought me. I wanted to be 90 and still remember and still appreciate it. We can talk it so good. How you wish it would be all the time.
There is an anxiety that cannot be rocked
Nate Green
There is an anxiety that cannot be rocked away by time, by gentle mornings in summertime. Sitting in a rocking chair on a white wooden porch and watching over a lazily flowing river does not appease it. Cicadas that grow louder with time until, by dinner, they’re screaming with the strength only accessible to those with short lives do not drown out the thoughts that rattle off the walls of the skull. Whether it peaks in the early hours of the day, when the covers on the bed seem sticky and too worn, or whether it peaks on the other side, when those same covers seem warm and inviting, it always finds its way in. She doesn’t mind the company.
This woman, old and alone, finds herself facing anxiety more often than not. The moments free of it are somehow worse; the silence in her mind deafens everything else, and it becomes difficult for her to do simple things: getting out of bed, reading, calling her children and grandchildren. She cannot pinpoint the exact moment the anxiety began, but she guesses it must’ve started when she was a child.
In Maine, where she grew up and lived for most of the life she remembers fondly, she often went fishing with her family. Mom, Dad, and Daughter would pile into a canoe and sit for hours on a lake or river or even a gentle section of ocean; from sunrise to sundown, they sat and talked and enjoyed the plentiful moments of silence. They ate sandwiches for lunch and dinner, and in all those moments in between, they snacked on fruit, chips, and cookies. Faced with the placid water beneath her, the absence of the need to worry about anything, and the gentle rocking of the boat—that carried its way back to her when she closed her eyes in bed—she realized how awful the rest of her life was. Or maybe she wouldn’t put it so harshly. In any case, she felt and still feels that these were the best moments of her life, that she will never again feel so at peace, so at ease, so free in the world to do as little or as much as she wishes.
From then on, life seemed a race to moments that might match the feelings she once had. Getting a good job, finding a husband, having children and then grandchildren, and grieving the gradual loss of all those godsends never seemed to be what she was looking for. “Is it so impossible to find a moment of pure existential serenity?” she wonders. Knowing that she will soon be out of time, and yet not knowing what else she can do, she wanders the sliver of the world that she’s confined her-
self to and worries. She worries that she will die unhappy. She worries that she will see her life distilled into a movie or book and feel that it’s a bad story. She worries that life was never more than fishing trips in Maine and that she, being too young, didn’t appreciate it enough.
Anxiety has traveled with her far in life: over mountains and oceans and across the sky. It was there when her son said “mama” for the first time and the moment she saw the life fade from her husband’s eyes. It was there when she got the promotion she’d been hounding for a decade and when she had to tell her daughter they couldn’t afford birthday presents. Her daughter, kind as she was and is, only gave her a hug and said, “I love you,” in a voice that trembled with a sadness she did her best to subdue. It was there at her retirement party when she cut the cake and ate it with colleagues she’d known for decades, each of them seeming the most beautiful person in the world. When she took a tour of this house with her husband, she stood on the porch and imagined a canoe on the water, floating downstream and carrying three fishing lines with it; the anxiety was there.
Now, in that house, a pit in her stomach deepens. But it’s an old friend, one that she’s come to love. It visits her more than her children or grandchildren. It climbs into bed with her more than her husband does, rest his soul. As much as it pains her to imagine that those moments in Maine were her best ones, and as much as she wants something better to come around, she’s made do. When she dies, she will kiss her anxiety goodbye, grateful.
If she had not been so afraid of losing out on life, perhaps she wouldn’t have approached her future husband in a bar. Perhaps she wouldn’t have committed to working and parenting full-time. Perhaps she would’ve missed some happy, little adventures she can’t remember the details of. Perhaps life would’ve turned out differently. And this last bit seems the most unacceptable of all. Not only to herself but to her family and friends. To say that her life was a failure is to say that those around her failed as well, and as cruel as she can be to herself, she draws the line at being too hard on others.
There is an anxiety that cannot be rocked. But it sits in the part of the heart that pushes us forward. In our last moments, and indeed in hers, it will vacate. The grandness of her life will unfurl itself like a banner, and on that banner, big letters will spell out: “Yours was a happy one.”
Hannah
Hannah was sitting near the pot, boiling up the congee and peanuts when she heard her sister shriek from the next room, followed by a light scolding from her father. It was both funny and cruel, the way her father woke up his kids by pressing an ice cube to their eyes. Hannah figured it couldn’t be helped. Her parents were religious to their core, and they never miss the daily 5 am mass.
Quinn and Mia slowly made their way from the sleeping corner of the house, their eyes halfclosed. “What’s for breakfast?” - Quinn asked curtly from the water basin. -“don’t tell me it’s peanut and congee again.”
Hannah was about to scold him when her mother marched from the kitchen door with a broomstick, all scary and powerful. “Quinn, quit complaining about the food,” her mother yelled, “if you don’t like it, get a job and cook the food yourself.” Quinn shut up right then.
“And you,” her mother suddenly turned to Hannah, “what’s taking so long?” her tone vexed. “Almost done, ma,” Hannah answered gently. Hannah grabbed the big wooden spoon, scooped everything out in a big bowl, then laid it out in the dining area. Her siblings dutifully sat there, waiting for food, their eyes half-closed. After her mother and father came back from the water basin, sticky sweat on his forehead, they closed their eyes and prayed together. She’d always loved this moment of the day, praying. Not because she liked praying, per se, but because of the little break she got between tasks. This prayer separated the cooking and eating. The later prayer separated washing dishes and working in the shop. The last prayer separated a whole day and the eyes shut at night. Praying was her salvation, her momentary escape from reality. And for that she was grateful.
Hannah has never had a lot. Everything either came to her or not, and she had learned to accept it either way. That’s what the church told her to do and what her parents always said. Keep your head down, and pray, God will give you what you’ll need, they always said. And she did. Because what mattered was that she didn’t feel war in her soul. Her father said they did not need that when there was already a war going on. Which was why she said nothing when her parents made her leave school to bike across town, selling bags of peanuts and tofu and everything her mother could make. Sometimes, as she rode through the streets on hot summer days, she would bring herself back to her school, where she was nothing but a kid. The nostalgia was a great escape, but in no way could take away the hot sun and long distance. Later on though, as she looked back, she only remembered the relief of being away from her family, of being reluctantly happy, for without those trips, she would not have met Ben.
Ben
In a world where poverty and war still preyed on people, no one had much of a mind to think of anything else but surviving to the next day. Where to find the next meal, how to get it, and how to rest well enough to get to the next
day, but not too much that you didn’t want to wake up. It’s a hard balance that people have learned to get by. But war-ridden or not, they were all humans. They all needed somewhere to escape to, to keep them grounded and sane and continuously functional. To be alive was to learn how to stay this way no matter what.
Ben was always fine with the way things were. He had this nonchalant, happy charm of a young, attractive boy. As the youngest of 7 siblings and functional parents, he’s never had much hardship. During the day, he worked at the bike shop with his brothers, them shouldering the tougher tasks and giving Binh the easier ones. At night, he hung out with his friends around town, prattling away their youthful brotherhood. Later on in life, when he would be married and have kids and being the head of the household, he would look back at this and yearn to be like such as again. But as of then, everything was fine.
It was another mundane afternoon at the bike shop. Binh sat alone with his left hand holding a piece of tool, his lips he whistled a cheerful melody. He was working on a broken bike when he heard discreet whispers outside the shop. He continued whistling, but his ears keen on the sound.
“Did he receive it only yesterday?” his mother asked, concerned.
“Yes, Aunty,” a timid female voice answered, “he has to leave in two weeks.”
“Unbelievable! The thing that they make us do!” his mother cried indignantly, and the girl snivelled slightly.
“It’s alright, Aunty, it’s bound to happen. Our uncle also received it weeks ago. I just hope your husband and sons would be spared.”
“Oh, my husband will be fine, the draft exempt men with more than 3 children,” but suddenly, his mother sounded like she was about to sob. “But my sons. They’re young, they’re healthy. They will...” and she stopped there, too shaken to continue.
The whistling faltered from Ben’s lips. It couldn’t be. The draft, the war, the damn government. He sat there, frozen in place. For the first time in his life, Ben felt like crying.
Why him? Why his brothers? They were just illiterate country boys that play around with bikes and oil. It’s better if they just stayed here, keeping their family whole, their mother unafraid.
The country he’s resided his whole life suddenly felt unsafe. It’s almost comical, how mere possibilities could chase away one’s sense of security. The bike shop and his town suddenly felt further and further away until all was left around him was dread.
That is, until the owner of the timid female voice stepped inside the shop. His mother walked in with her, asking if she wanted tea.
From a fleeting glance, she did not seem too special. Her hair tied into a neat bun and old khaki-colored clothes hung loose on her slight frame. She smiled and bowed to him as she saw him sitting there. Ben didn’t know what had happened or who the girl even was. All he knew was that just seconds ago he was filled with angst, but now he wasn’t. Something about the sight of her evaporated his fear and gentled his soul.
He would love to stay this way forever.
“Ben,” his mother scolded, “what are you doing gaping at our guest?”
He stood up abruptly, ready to offer his hand, but nothing moved.
“Hi Ben, I’m Hannah,” she giggled, though her eyes still clouded with distress. They focused on him curiously, then darted away a bit too fast. Silence stretched, something grew thick in the air. His mother watched the two, a mischievous grin on her lips, then left for the kitchen.
Ben cleared his throat, trying to think of some friendly, harmless chitchat, but all that came out was…
“I’m sorry to hear about your father being drafted,” he said sincerely, “it must have been difficult for your family.”
Hannah was stunned, at his brazen admittance to eavesdropping and straightforwardness to a complete stranger. “Yes, thank you, we’ve been praying relentlessly. Hoping for what I’m not sure,” she said mournfully, her gaze far away. They were both thinking of the same things: the bombs dropped on their town’s corn fields, the mass casualty reported in the paper, the overall horror of war. There was no way of navigating out of this hopelessness, they were stuck. The realization knocked the wind out of Ben’s breath, and there was nothing to do at the moment but sighed dejectedly.
Hannah, on the other hand, was feeling braver than normal. Here stood in front of her was no longer the youngest son, the merry boy known around town. She looked at Ben, absorbed his torment, then spoke with her voice clear:
“I know my word means nothing, but I wish you, I wish you safety, and health, and morale, so that you can come back as whole as you could be,” she said, and upon his stunned silence, continued, “your mother will need you, the town will need you and your jolly spirit.”
At this he perked up, “my spirit?””
“Your mother came over to our house and boasted about you often to my parents and me,” Hannah answered bashfully.
“Oh my, that’s just embarrassing,” he started laughing. His mother, what could she be up to?
“I promise it’s not! She said good things.” She admitted, then upon his astounded gaze averted her eyes from his.
“My mother must be dying for us to join her for tea,” he cleared his throat, looking at the kitchen, “do you want to come in?”
“I would love to!” Hannah said, and together they walked with equal glee and suppressed terror. In any minute now, his brother would come back with the news of their draft. In any minute now, his life would never be the same.
But for now, he would have a cup of tea with this endearing girl in his kitchen.
May this not be the last time he could do that.
The End
TAGS: Angst, Lots of Angst, Stress Relief, One Couch ;), Heavy Angst, The Editors need a hug, Hurt/Comfort*
Dearest Readers,
Our sincerest apologies, we did not even consider when choosing this theme that our timing was perfect (or perhaps just cruel) in that we are publishing our angstiest issue yet during finals. The time of year when students are already on the brink of multiple existential crises, so we offer our sincerest apologies. Let this issue be a sign that you are not alone in your angst and not a sign that the world is ending.
Now taking a mildly nostalgic turn, we’ve been reflecting on this year and are extremely impressed with our contributors and staff. In just two years, Libertas has had a full revival and we cannot wait for next year (please send theme ideas for next year). Remembering this year is wonderful due to all your work and labors of love, but also we are now in full existential crisis over the speed at which time passes. Thank you to all who read, contribute, and edit. Hang in there!
Sincerely,
Elsah James, Co-Editor-In-Chief
Audrey Bohlin, Co-Editor-In-Chief
*When searching for information about this issue’s letter we turned to the angstiest writing either of us could think of in under five minutes and landed on fanfiction and fanfiction tags. You’re welcome. If you are looking for the editors fanfictions look no further. (Audrey - @nearlyaneditor and Elsah - @angstyelsah)
