ISSUE NO. THREE
art cannot be defined
 by a few lines of words or a few strokes of a brush. art can be self-expression, art can be communication, art can be an attempt to change the world. this zine will dedicate itself to the art that the youth creates; the people whose inspirations shine a light on the darkness of the world, who are determined to change the world or themselves - both of which are hard tasks to conquer; this zine will dedicate itself to art with meaning made by people who create meaning through art. this zine is the product of what we, as a powerful force, create, no matter what our own definitions of art may be.
“ do
not be afraid
t o t a k e a s t e p b a c k f ro m e v e r y t h i n g .
”
it has definitely been a while. working on this issue almost felt like meeting up with an old friend—a lot of things have changed since you last saw each other, but that doesn’t alter your feelings for each other. you’ll find comfort in knowing that there will always be someone to catch you when you’re overwhelmed with new, adventurous things. —one thing before i leave: for this issue, some of our contributors (claire, corinne, nicole) have edited the literary submissions by contacting and working directly with the writers. what i’ve learned: spaces where artists interact with and help improve one another are precious, empowering, and something the world needs more of. with love, ayna founder and editor
f i n d. m e : instagram & tumblr: libraerie
issue.
content.
THREE // may 2019
i. juxtaposition
“At last came the golden month of the wild folk-- honey-sweet May, when the birds come back, and the flowers come out, and the air is full of the sunrise scents and songs of the dawning year..”
page six to thirteen
— samuel scoville jr., wild folk
p h o t o
s e t
b y
h e l e n a
ii. colours page eighteen to twenty-nine
contact.
artist interview - élise
libraerie@yahoo.com libraerie.tumblr.com
iii. heat page fourty-two to fourty-seven
contributors.
journal entries by helena
THREE // may 2019
iv. letters page fifty-two to sixty-five
addison
élise
t: kibberswrites, twitter: addisonrizer
ig: wormange
alice
t: softlyexisting
helena ig: rabbits_melancholy
ally ig: diregays & milkpockets
kayla t: frockhag
kian
amanda
t: mindspiil
t: wlwesque, ig: hearte.out
nicole
claire t: mattiboyd ig: clairw.e
t: sweetpotaro ig: tangynic
rani t: amwordism
corinne flannery t: everylunebleu ig: corinneclara
sydney noelle t: sapphena ig: sydnova
libraerie. the libraerie magazine offers a platform for young artists to raise their voices about their identity, their thoughts and their hopes in their respective ways of creating. the simple format aims to enable the reader to fully engage with the work.
juxtaposition
/ˈlɪm.ɪ.nəl/ adjective between or belonging to two different places or states sleepovers always come with a specific atmosphere of surreal. the night ends with quiet whispers and sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. the mornings begin with you stumbling around the house, almost stuck in time as you brush your teeth in front of a new mirror. you part ways with the host and have to face the nostalgic feeling of leaving that little world. sometimes my own room seems like a liminal space. i look towards the clock and “it's midnight already?". i remain frozen, suddenly aware of time passing as if it's gently grazing my skin. i'm tired but i push myself to stay awake just so i can live in that moment for a little longer, so i stay up until i can effortlessly drift off into sleep. the next morning i deal with the melancholy of a wasted yesterday, a difficult today and a distant tomorrow. —liminal, by kian
—collage, by ally
Poetry lied in the streets, And perhaps heaven where an eternal spring bloomed
was never Eden
under the flickering lights of neon,
to begin with,
and where flowers seldom grew
but rather an idea;
among the alleyways that saw war;
A feeling Dramatized
where there roamed no better poets
Exaggerated
than those who owned nothing.
adorned with elegance,
Them who wrote with words
and only elegance.
that belonged to no language and them who carried souls
Yet,
that belonged to no home.
what is more elegant than chaos,
No home,
more beautiful
for most lived in the prose
than distortion and fault.
unwritten
And what is more romantic than the
and the artwork
streets,
still blank.
where one becomes both
They lived midst the gravel roads
Poet and Poetry.
and the liquor stores and the little worlds they created of imperfection; halo-less angels standing guard of their much ridiculed paradise.
—THOSE WHO GLIMPSED ELYSIUM IN MOTEL ROOMS, by amanda
—juxtaposition, by amanda
You know when you feel roller-coaster floating and sun-warm with your eyes closed? Kissin’ you feels the same way. Feel it long after, stomach-sinking. Metal hand-bars and sore feet. Though, I’d rather take my chances on lap bars than you because I know you’re gonna kill me first. Man builds better than themselves, safer than themselves. Still. I love a gutsplit-open-I’m-gonna-die-and-thank-you-very-much kinda thrill. Don’t close my eyes at the wheel but wonder about how the crunch would feel. Sharp laughter and screaming and popping-in-your-mouth candy. I don’t want to die, but sometimes I wouldn’t mind if something else did it for me. So. Come over. Come quietly. Leave me weightless. I’m so sick of feeling how heavy I am. —roller coaster, addison
who built the sea? what wanderer, creator, philosopher, knew the way to paint destruction in the waves. what intellect mapped out the mathematics in the fish, the creatures that can survive in something that is deadly to us. it could have been a writer whose words fell off the page and created worlds that we’ve read but have never traveled. it could have been a scientist, one who mixed chemicals like baking ingredients, one who let the vile bubble over and explode into a mess of sea. who built the fisher? what being told man to tie a string to a stick and a hook to that string, what told man to stick that in the water, what told man to pull it back out once the string was yanked. what told man to cook and eat that creature that man had never seen, but trusted nonetheless. who built the storms? the ones that rip the breath out of lungs, the ones we can’t survive because we’re just minuscule creations in such a mountainous world. we hide, we pack ourselves in to avoid these terrors of beauty that could pull us apart until we’re just simplistic organisms, no longer breathing or working or living. who built the sea? what wanderer, creator, philosopher; what being knew how to create something so wild that even the reckless- the daredevils- fear exploring. —who built the sea, by syd
playlist: beautiful problems
by nicole
hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like to
lana del rey
me to have—but i have it my life in art when the party’s over hot knifer persephone beautiful people beautiful problems merry christmas mr. lawrence lovely unrequited love (& other cliches) buzzcut season
mojave 3 billie eilish peach pit the tragic thrills lana del rey feat. stevie nicks ryuichi sakamoto billie eilish, khalid breakup shoes lorde
I was born into a world in which I was taught to be grateful. Be grateful for the roof over your head, the food on your plate, the education you receive, the safety bestowed on you. Be grateful for the devices you carry, the clothes you get to wear, the shops you can enter. Be grateful, because this is what your parents and your grandparents have toiled and worked hard for - they’ve earned dollars and cents for all of us to spend, to lead comfortable lives. I am grateful, of course I am. But I’m also anxious. At what cost have I received these things? What do we pay to earn the privilege to buy? The haze-filled skies and the overflowing landfills of plastic waste are glaring symbols of what we’ve raided from the earth. We amass things and trade in our planet like it’s some currency to be dished out, without realising it’s not a very wise idea to buy a bed if you don’t have a house. Even the paper money we throw around - our world, with its finite resources, will run out, run dry. And then we’ll be left with nothing.
You and me – we see this, we understand it, we want to change it. In comes the zero waste campaigns, vegan movements, environmental activism; championed by the very youth often dubbed “lazy” and “entitled”. Meanwhile, older generations adamantly refuse to cut down on single-use plastics, consumption of meat, or – shudder – attempt to recycle. This is not some movement to segregate the young from the old, merely a trend I can’t help but point out. But when the baby boomers look back, will they realise what they’ve done? The thirst for economic gain and material success have irrevocably damaged the earth. And now we’re left to pick up the pieces. When the planet gets run down, who’s going to suffer? Us, the youth, but also the generations after. Now do you understand why we’re doing this? Why we speak to you about “carrying around a tote bag and a reusable straw”, or protest against the corporations and their wasteful ways? This is not some hippie movement. It’s a plea to do something before it’s too late. Adults will tell us that we have it so much better than they did back then, and I don’t disagree. Yet what’s the use of having material things, having a great education, having decadent dishes, if we’re not going to live to enjoy the fruits of their (and our) labour? Humans broke the feedback loop when they ignored the negative externalities, broke it when they tried to stretch the boom and bust cycle into a single arrow of growth. Before it plunges straight down into the ground of no return, let’s give the generations after us something to be grateful for. —when the baby boomers look back, by nicole
—photoset by helena
blue body, my friend you've been here since the beginning and you will be at the end blue body, my dear you've done so well
colours
yet i can't believe you're here blue body, my love you've worked hard for me sent from one above blue body, my heart you've become all i need what are you but art? blue body, my grudge who am i to judge? blue body, whom i did not create there isn't much point of nothing but hate
—blue body, by kayla
the red moon heralds a time of two-faced good what, perhaps was meant to be love was shaken then forsaken and tore what was eternal in two now i sit alone in the dimly lit room hoping the tears will not reflect the red moon’s warning
—red moon, by kayla
—photoset by ally
Red feels like heat. Seven years old, sprinting across your street in pursuit of your little sister, your bare feet moving as fast as they can to keep the hot asphalt from burning into your heels. Panting, chest heaving, you stop, hunch over with your hands on your knees, cheeks pink and hair tangled in your face. Red feels like squealing with excitement when you hear the ice cream truck cruising down the next street over. Red feels like sitting with your best friend on the curb outside your house, laughing so uncontrollably that you tip over onto each other, which only causes you to laugh harder. Red feels like childlike excitement, like energy. Orange feels like freedom. Standing in the front of an expansive field of flowers that seem to go on for miles, wind brushing your hair into your face and causing the sunflowers to collide into each other. Orange feels like the end of a hike, standing atop a lookout in awe of how far you’ve climbed, existing above the clouds and feeling like you belong up in the sky. Or driving home after a long day of adventuring with the windows down and the music drifting out into the open air. Resting your hand on the edge of the window, letting your fingers dance through the breeze. Seeing the sunset slowly peek above the trees and up into the atmosphere. Orange feels like contentment, lightness of being. Yellow feels like sunbeams warming and melting the frost that’s covered the blades of grass all winter. When the air has been cold for months and months and you never thought it would warm again, but it does. When you have been sad for months and months and you never thought you would feel happiness again, but you do. Yellow is in the unrestrained laugh of a child, in the smile that your best friend gets when they see you. In the clear skies the morning after a thunderstorm. In inherent goodness and hearts only intending to love. Unconditional gratitude for living to see another day on this beautiful earth. Finding significance in the simplest of moments. Yellow is radiant, authentic joy. Green feels like the first step outside into the open air after being inside for a whole day. You stop and you breathe in deep, and exhaling slowly. Green feels like grounding yourself in a moment of chaos. You feel your feet underneath you, rock back and forth a few times, and steady yourself again. Green is stretching your limbs after a long day. Rolling your shoulders, fixing your posture. Feeling a little more awake, a little more alive, a little more present. Like a sip of ice water. Green feels refreshing, like renewal. Blue feels like clarity. Sleeping in for the first time in forever, then blasting your favorite song as you get ready for the day. Clean sheets and the smell of fabric softener. Laying on the floor
of your dimly lit room with your best friend, talking about life and about true happiness and what it really means to live. Blue feels like the realization that you’re an entirely different person than you were last year, but realizing that it’s a good kind of different. Finding your purpose and your passions and sinking into your true self. Taking care of your soul and resting when you need it. Blue is brightness, soft smiles, and still waters.
Violet feels like home. The first embrace with your mom after not seeing her for three months. Laughs with your little brother during your first coffee run in a while. Watching a movie on the couch under a fluffy blanket with your dad. Family dinners at the end of a hectic day with home cooking and your dog sitting at your feet. Violet is sleeping in the comfort of your own bed again, with moonlight seeping through your curtains and forming shadows on your wall. Glancing through your window up at the stars and constellations, illuminating the black sky, as dark and thick as molasses. Violet feels like safety, and ease of existence. Life feels like color. Spinning and swirling in an array of vivid shades and tones, every memory ingrained in your mind like a motion picture that, no matter how many times you’ve watched it, you find something new to love each time. Soaking in every moment with awe and wonder. Constantly captivated by the fullness of living. Life feels like a rainbow. —a rainbow, by helena
Aimlessly wandering back and forth across the street, he glanced all around, to the sky, then to his feet. In one sudden movement, to the streetlights’ surprise, the kitten flopped down; now, on the asphalt he lies. Though the coziest bed may not be a pile of leaves, he seems to enjoy the crunch as he turns in his sleep. Yet another brisk night, the streetlights did hear loud laughs from three teenagers, even before they appeared. They then turned the corner, and carried by each were bags of McDonald’s — enough for a feast. The three, smiling and chatting, stopped right in their tracks, and down below the streetlight, they ate. And they sat on that cold curb for longer than expected, for it was rather chilly- but the food had them distracted. While they woke the poor streetlights, it was quite amusing to hear conversations so riveting at two in the morning.
Several months later, when the air had turned cooler, and the leaves had all fallen, marking the transition to winter, the streetlights did not hear any noise from the ground, but in fact felt a coldness so suddenly surround. And slowly, so steadily, the streetlights did see a sight that would surely fill all children with glee: drifting softly from the sky was indeed the first snow, landing and resting on the sidewalk below. They knew the next morning it would all be displaced when the children delightfully made snowballs and raced to see who could possibly hit the other first, then making a snowman and snow angels — immersed in the genuine beauty and wonder of snow. Who knew the streetlights would be first to know? Night after night, the streetlights still see the inner-workings of life after two in the morning. With amusement, interest, and overall contentment, all are considered a good night well-spent. Replacing the shadows with patches of light, they simply hope to ease any moment of strife. And though people tend to so swiftly pass by, the streetlights still rest in the comfort of the sky. Shades of black, shades of blue, the lights tend to wonder if the sky’s looking down as the streetlights sit under. —streetlights, by helena
—crimson canvas, by nicole
I’ve had late night car conversations many times in my life. Often it’s after a Wendy’s run at 11pm, or parked in the driveway of a friend when I drop them off. They’re sometimes heartfelt, sometimes amusing, not usually emotional. But that night with Hannah in her car, in the empty parking lot of the Regal Theater, tears streamed down our faces as we glanced out the windows at the lights from the marquee. For the first time in our lives, we didn’t feel like we had to hide. Faith was a crucial part of my upbringing. My parents were both raised Catholic, so naturally, my siblings and I were as well. Sunday morning Mass was a fixed part of our schedule; unless you were contagious or physically dying, you went to church—no excuses. We attended Catholic school from kindergarten all the way through high school as well. I grew up in love with my faith. I joined the children’s choir starting in second grade, stole my mother’s lectionary so I could pretend to read out of it in my free time, and became an altar server the second I was old enough, even though I was way too tiny to carry the cross at the front of the procession. I loved Jesus because I was told he died for my sins. Unfortunately, I naively believed everything I was told was “right” or “wrong.” Of course, I didn’t realize the damaging nature of blindly accepting beliefs until years later. My sophomore year of high school, I was preparing for the sacrament of Confirmation. As a requirement, I attended small group discussions during the week and large group classes on Sundays that focused on various facets of Church teachings. One Sunday afternoon, the topic was same-sex attraction and marriage. We gathered in our brightly-lit hall and settled in metal folding chairs around a projector screen. Brita, our youth minister informed us what exactly the Catholic Church teaches on homosexuality. She paced back and forth in the front, making eye contact with as many of us as she could, as she clarified that the Church doesn’t hate gay people as most people may think. This was a surprise to me. Waving her hands for emphasis, she repeated several times, “Love the person, hate the sin.” I nodded my head along vigorously. Love the person, hate the sin. I drove home that day under cloudy grey skies, unable to concentrate on the radio because I was too busy thinking about everything Brita had said. The feelings may be natural, but they’re only wrong if you act on them. Right?
My parents seemed to feel a little differently. Until about middle school, I had practically no understanding of what same-sex attractions meant because my family blocked them out entirely. I can recall countless occasions when we were watching the news and a story about gay rights came on. Within seconds of the story’s introduction, my mom or dad would lunge for the remote and frantically change the channel. It’s not like they would blatantly condemn homosexuality. They erased it. The topic was taboo, like how some parents avoid telling their children about sex, or keep them from watching violent movies. In my mind, gay people’s existence was so incredibly wrong and sinful that even hearing or talking about it was, by extension, wrong. If my eleven-year-old, devoutly Catholic self found out that eighteen-year-old me would go see Love, Simon and cry about it in the car afterwards, she would have preemptively gone to confession and said seventy Rosaries in preparation. One afternoon a couple months after that Confirmation class, I was laying sideways on my bed with my feet dangling over the edge, surfing YouTube on my phone and half listening to my parents’ conversation in the kitchen. I was watching videos from one of my favorites, Dodie Clark. She played the ukulele and wrote her own songs, and was basically everything I ever wanted to be. She had released a new video simply entitled, “My Sexuality.” Partly out of curiosity and partly out of boredom, I clicked it. Although it was a public video with tens of thousands of views, it seemed as though she spoke directly to me. She said she didn’t like to conform to labels, but she knew she had felt romantic feelings for both men and women. She talked about how she didn’t realize for the longest time that her romantic feelings for women were, in fact, romantic. Wanting to kiss girls isn’t normal to most women, apparently. After years of confusion and uncertainty, she realized the validity of her feelings and was finally proud of who she was. The video came to a close, and I lay still, feeling slightly confronted and uncomfortable about what she just said. Almost as if to keep myself from processing what I had just heard, I clicked on the first suggested video: an original song of Dodie’s, titled “She”. As she sang softly about falling in love with a girl who doesn’t see her as anything more than a friend, a lump formed in my throat. I sat up abruptly and stars flooded my vision, my mind both frozen and racing.
The noise from my family talking downstairs began to fade, and the voice in my head grew louder. What if I didn’t actually believe everything my parents had taught me growing up? What if there was a reason I was so intrigued to discover that the church loves the person but just hates the sin? What if, despite everything my parents had ingrained in me as a child, homosexuality wasn’t wrong? What if all the times I had wanted to be best friends with a girl were maybe more than I had let on? Transfixed, I shook the stars out of my sight and the room came back into focus. It took me months to accept that maybe I didn't believe everything I had learned all my life, and that somehow that was okay. It took me months to learn that loving a person of the same sex wasn’t inherently wrong. It took me months to realize that I felt romantic attraction towards girls. It took me months to realize that I was bisexual. And it took me longer to realize that was okay. Even as I became comfortable with my identity, I remained uncomfortable with the potential of my family ever finding out. Based on everything I had been taught, I
thought it was best not to say anything. I dreaded hearing my own parents tell me that who I loved was sinful, and feared the truth could endanger my safety and financial dependency on them. So I kept it to myself. A lot of late nights were spent crying while stopped at an intersection, driving down a darkened freeway, or parked in the driveway. Late nights spent sitting in the shadows, only partially illuminated by the reflection of the rain and the moonlight against the asphalt. Sitting alone, crying because I was certain the people closest to me wouldn't love me if they knew. Moving to college, I had hoped for a chance to be open and more comfortably grow into myself. But instead, it was taken away. With no car and no room to myself, I didn’t have a driver’s seat to feel safe in. I had no idea that a few weeks later I would regain the opportunities for those midnight moments of honesty. I had no idea that soon I would meet a girl who would perfectly understand everything I was going through and offer a shoulder to cry on. All I knew was that, for the present being, I was stuck under the fluorescent lights of the desk in my shared dorm room, alone. At first I hoped that even though it was still a religious atmosphere, people would be more accepting and I wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. But after a few months, I realized that I had transitioned to yet another confining environment filled with people who would judge or invalidate me. I dated a guy for a few months that winter. A little while in, I felt as though I wasn't being completely honest. I wanted
our relationship to be transparent, and for us to communicate well. However, seconds after I came out to him, he broke up with me. That was all the proof I needed to know I still didn't have a place to be honest about who I was. I met Hannah through Shalom. I had been attending the chapel service every few weeks since the beginning of the semester, and decided to reply to an email to help lead worship for it. She and I were randomly paired together. At first, we weren't close. We got together to plan and sing worship and that was it. We sang well together. The next semester, we found out we were in a Humanities class together. Not to say that the class was unbearable, but I did witness two people apply to transfer schools while in that class. Hannah sat two rows behind me, and occasionally we would text each other our opinions of the lecture, just to give ourselves something to do. One particularly mundane Monday, we were discussing a unique piece of art entitled “Floor Burger” that consisted of a large-scale sculpture of - you guessed it a burger sitting on the floor. The majority of the class was either dozing off, on their phone, or working on other homework. It was possibly the longest seventy-five minutes of my life. I tried blinking quickly and rolling my shoulders to try to stay engaged, but to no avail. Then, as if she had read my mind, Hannah texted me, “There’s something more important happening right now” - Harry Styles was rumored to be bisexual. While on tour, he had performed an unreleased song that implied romantic feelings with both boys and girls. She mentioned how it felt incredibly validating for her, and I agreed. Unexpectedly, we found out we were both bisexual during HUMA class. Not the most conventional, but then again, neither was the floor burger. As luck would have it, we had this conversation just as the movie Love, Simon had entered theaters. Love, Simon followed the story of teenager Simon Spier, who thinks he might be gay but hasn’t told anyone. When he falls for a fellow classmate, his secret is unexpectedly revealed and he is forced to publicly come to terms with his identity. She texted me the week after asking me if I wanted to see it with her. Of course, I agreed. We set out one March evening to a small theater several miles from school. We didn’t want to risk running into anyone we knew. In true Oregon fashion, a clear, spring evening had evolved into dreary rainfall. Driving through the nearly
empty streets, I glanced out the passenger side window. The trees cast shadows that were dispelled by the street lights, and rain glistened off the pavement as the car splattered the water onto the sidewalk. The world outside was seemingly still, but inside my mind was racing. I was nervous. Nonetheless, I walked into that theater with Hannah. Fortunately, we were the only two people under forty in the theater. Part of me was relieved. We sat in the second to the last row, in front of an older couple. I tapped my leg in anticipation, and glanced and saw Hannah was doing the same. She reached over and squeezed my hand, and just as the lights were beginning to dim, she smiled. Towards the end of the movie, Simon approached his mom and asked her if she had known he was gay. She responded that, yes, she could tell he had been hiding something. Without prompting, she reassured him that he was still the same person he had always been. Except now, he could be more like himself than he ever was before. After all those years of holding his breath, he could exhale. Hannah grabbed my hand again, and held on. With shallow, shaky breaths, we let tears silently stream down our faces as we watched a mother say to her child what we might never get to hear. Our exit from the theater was quiet. The rain had stopped by that time, leaving behind a watery reflection of the streetlights off the asphalt of the nearly vacant parking lot. When we got in, everything came to a halt. We sat unmoving in the darkness for a few moments. The red light by the keyhole blinked on and off. “It hurts that I know I’d never have that conversation with my mom,” I started, “Not even close.” A car pulled into the drive-through of the McDonalds across the way. “Yeah,” she answered, “I’ve talked to my mom about it a couple of times and she just doesn’t seem to understand”. The last remaining car in the parking lot lit up and pulled out onto the main road. “I just hate that I have to hide a huge part of who I am,” I said. I tried to exhale but my breath shuddered. The raindrops clinging to the glass mirrored the returning tears that clung to my eyelashes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever tell my parents,” I confessed. Hannah reached across the cup holders to take my hand once more.
“And that’s okay. Just know that I am here for you whenever you need to talk. About anything,” she said, looking directly at me, nodding slightly. I inhaled deeply and nodded back, holding tight to her hand. The stoplight behind her changed color. I don’t remember everything that was said that night in her car, but I do know that it was the first time in my life that I felt someone truly understand. The first time someone saw who I was in my entirety, and loved me wholeheartedly for it. That night as I cried side-by-side with Hannah, I was set free. For years, I had lived with inner and outer voices that convinced me that my love for women was invalid, sinful, and inherently wrong. But this time, they spoke a little quieter because I wasn’t alone anymore. Not everything was instantly fixed in that moment. My family would still change the channel every time a gay rights issue came on the news. My church would still preach to me about the sinfulness of any love not between a man and a woman. I was still surrounded by people who were likely to reject our identities. But with Hannah, I had someone to cry with. I had someone who would listen and relate. I had a place where I could love the person I wanted to, and be loved for it. Even if it was hidden away in a parked car in a darkened Regal Theater parking lot. —love the person, by helena
With lips of amber and a tongue of silk she’s a creature created to encroach on the camber and the beasts and their ilk and she won’t be stopped ‘til her appetite’s sated
—by kayla
artist interview: ĂŠlise
élise is an 18 years old french canadian artist who doesn’t know how to describe herself so her girlfriend had to help her. “she’s what you could call a work in progress as everyday is a chance to discover more about herself and the world which influences who she is. being a gemini, she’s very indecisive but she’s of a few things: her love of ferrets and of rewatching the same harry potter movies over and over convincing herself that she is a slytherin.”
can you describe your artistic style, or general aesthetic?
my style of art is interlaced with my aesthetic. i think my art is some kind of surrealism, mixed with somewhat of impressionism inspired paint strokes. i love mixing portraits of pretty girls with elements of nature such as insects and plants. my aesthetic is centered around the same elements. it is clouds on summer days and butterfly wings, translucent and colorful. i also tend to juxtapose cuteness with unsettling themes especially when it comes to writing.
—the rebirth of Ophelia, acrylics and watercolor on paper, 2018
do you think your style has changed over time?
i do not think my artistic style has changed over time. however, i’ve gotten better at executing my ideas. i’ve always had an idea of what i wanted my art to look like, but as my abilities have improved, due to practice and time, my art now reflects more of my desired style.
what are you working on at the moment?
i’m always working on many artistic projects at the same time, whether it is planning them out or actually creating them. a very exciting project i’m planning consists of a dozen of art collabs with people from all around the world. i am gonna paint half of a rectangle, of acrylic paper, with a design or a texture and send all of the rectangles to other young artists who will have to create something different on the other half of the paper without being able to see what i did. the final result will be out of my control which is scary but also fun. i’m also working on a big poster i am making to decorate my college dorm. one of my main artistic goals for this year is to learn more film photography.
do you have any other artistic goals you want to achieve?
the truth is that i don’t have that many specific artistic goals even though i do have a lot of projects. i want to improve in many areas such as realism when it comes to painting and capturing a subject in unique ways through photography.
in what ways do you think photography differs from art?
traditional art consists of making something out of nothing expect an idea in your head. photography is more about taking what you already have and capturing it in the way that you intended.
—heartworms, acryl on canvas, 2019
where do you draw your inspiration from?
i draw my inspiration from everything and anything. when it comes to creating sometimes the most unexpected of situations bring the most inspiration to me. a few weeks ago, during class my microbiology teacher mentioned a mushroom thats called ‘’ angel of death’’ (amanita ocreata) and soon you will be able to spot those exact mushrooms on one of my art pieces. i keep record of my thoughts, emotions and ideas during the day and they multiply like worms on their own. feelings such as love, envy or sadness are also the root of some of my art as well as music and other people’s writing and art pieces.
do you ever have artist’s block? and if so, how do you deal with it?
yes, sometimes. what i tend to do is to keep creating through it even if i’m not inspired because creating in quantity, even if it lacks creativity and therefore quality, is helpful to improve skills. i try to remind myself that all the art i create is good because art itself no matter what form it takes is good.
—putrÊfaction, acrylic, watercolors and marker on paper, 2018
2007, somewhen in the afternoon heart-shaped clips attached to my brain, i entered the room tethered to my moms hand, wonder and curiosity spilling out of my mouth and staining my cheeks peach. a room full of flying orchids fluttering, landing on awaiting arms. overwhelming sight of living beauty for my 7 year old self who runs out the door drowning in childhood tears, my eyes red stained glass. march 12th, 2018, mid afternoon i went to the room again that day, no clips in my hair. the fear was already gone by the time i got there. i think i could hear them couldn't i? (yes, i still do) the wings flapping against my lung tissues, rainlike, muffled, monotone sounds arising for my own vessel. a heart, filled with chrysalis, veins infested with larvae and eggs, i am, since, the host to the most beautiful of parasites. affection grew in every one of my organs like lilies in the early spring sunshine. whoever said butterflies are reserved to stomachs must have never met aphrodite herself. june 26th 2018, late, unable to sleep every touch is a new discovered blessing. holy words slit open my tongue as i ask for your lips on that moonless basement bound night. the darkness is total but your eyes shine, reflection of the magic held by your atoms. i want to map every inch of you skin with soft butterfly kisses, a celestial constellation that im oh so lucky to witness. by then im infested, molded to the bone by feelings words can't bear to decompose as it is suprathreshold. every philosopher from anders to weil begs me on their knees to stop writing. i step on their graves, to their demise, my fingertips carry faelike light and i know now (as if i hadn't known before) that as long as i have you, it is okay. if loving you is a sin, i hope lucifer saves me a spot where i crawled out of. march 18th 2019, 3:33 PM can a single butterfly’s delicate flight, cause a tornado somewhere else? mere thoughts of your existence create cataclysms in my international body, laws of causality and the theory of chaos make my answers to these profound questions so easy. if you could go back in time and speak to your younger self what would you say? i ought to tell her about luck (how lucky i am to be) or that angels are real. i should tell my younger self to keep her young heart and love-shaped clips, that insects are harmless, definitely deserving of my past appreciation. nevertheless, travelling the horizontal dimension of life backwards seems like a grave mistake. from the first colony of bacteria in the midst of the underworld, to the evolution of species by darwin, i’m so lucky that the entire universe wanted us to meet. i lay my head on your beating chest and discover purpose in this existence. —butterflies, by élise
lovesick, acrylic on canvas, 2019
what do you think about the notion that the artistic life is lonely?
i think that, for me, the act of creating is something i need to do alone. despite that, there’s a distinction between loneliness and being alone, in which i am creating alone but feeling connected to the world through my art.
you can find her on redbubble: moonlitgf instagram: wormange
heat Like cherry pits rotting under the sun Your perfume still lingers in the humid air of march No breeze, for the world has stood still A lazy summer afternoon passing before its time My finger tips caress my dampened cheeks, sticky Tongue tainted with the glossy red of the fruit Yet teeth patterned deep velvet with my blood As my lips carve under my bite marks Marble on wood It is only me and nothing else For the city has lost its buzz since you left Poetry caught in my throat Suddenly unfamiliar to the ink of worn pens And as my smile aches for the kiss of another girl I take the love you have taught me and taste it in ripe plums And with the loss i learn to move on Swallow the cherries and Throw out the pits onto the soil Just as their stench becomes too strong For perhaps they may blossom Around this time next march —a lesson on love, loss, and summer fruit, by amanda
listening to songs on the highest volume. songs as dense and thick as molasses, running through your mind slowly and deliberately, coating over the hurt like trying to paint white over black chewing gum every minute of every day, even hours after it's lost its flavor. each movement of your jaw reminds you that not all your senses have dulled yet, that not everything has gone numb. intentionally breathing deeper and deeper, letting the air reach the farthest depths of your lungs, more than you ever let his words sink in, forcing your breath to have more weight, more significance, than his whispered promises ever did searching so desperately to find moments of happiness, grasping onto them tightly, and with panic, knowing they'll soon be washed over by waves of loneliness, accompanied by empty chests, chipped nail polish, and puffy eyes that won't vanish even with a good night's sleep. resting your head on the shoulder of another boy, sinking into his arms as he says that the one who loved you "doesn't know what he's missing", convincing yourself that you're not thinking about how his arms felt different; still aching for his touch and for him to tell you he made a mistake, that he still loves you, that he still wants to hold on replaying each moment of closeness that you had. each moment where he told you he never wanted to hurt you, that he never wanted these feelings to change and then the image cuts to your heaving tears in the cold air, hidden in the shadows of the trees, encompassed by his arms, his arms. aching for the day that you'll love again, renewed and revived and unafraid. —aftermath, by helena
● when your favorite song comes on the radio ● finding just what you were hoping for at the thrift store ● your pet sitting on your lap unexpectedly ● getting into comfortable clothes when you get home ● the satisfaction of creating something ● the feeling when you’ve written a beautiful poem ● a character idea popping into your head while on a walk ● walking with a friend in the hallway and forgetting that everyone else exists ● inside jokes with siblings ● a particularly good facemask ● finding an old stuffed animal from childhood ● meeting an old friend ● hearing a song and feeling it resonate in your bones ● completing something small on your bucket list ● being able to wear your favorite bra ● planning an outfit you love to wear tomorrow ● afternoon naps ● going through family photo albums at your grandparents’ ● dancing down the street in the rain with your sister ● coming home and being able to get under the covers ● watching the moon follow you when you’re driving at night ● when a friend’s cat who ‘doesn’t usually like people’ loves you right away —little moments, by kayla
we drink honey lattes in the sun, shades over our eyes; i can’t see yours sparkle like ice. you’re rambling about the hole in the ozone layer, telling me about what we can do, why aren’t we doing anything? i’m not listening, i’m just watching, looking for answers in your peachy lips. you don’t see me, i don’t think; you aren’t present in the real world- the only thing real to you is your mindi wish you would see me, would fall for me like i’ve fallen for you, but your eyes are hidden by your honey latte & your head is somewhere far, far, away —honey lattes, by syd
Real love is not born from desire or made from desperate lust. It is forged in a gentle fire and shaped by innocent trust. Real love is not like a fairytale and can be difficult to follow but it ensures we don’t fail by never becoming hollow. Real love is not always clear as it alters itself to survive. It can be something very dear if we just allow it to thrive. —real love, by rani
You hide away your problems and act as if there’s no sadness we can share. You don’t tell me what really bothers you as if you aren’t aware how much I care. You don’t mean to but you lie to me when you say I’m better off ignorant. My heart breaks a little every time you pretend to be so indifferent. You have no idea how much I care or how desperately I wish to prove that your battle of impossibility can be started with one small move. I’ll be here every moment I can spare so you don’t have to feel alone. I’m not perfect but I’d like to try, so please open your walls of stone. You deserve help in finding your smile so next time you’re alone against despair, just ask yourself one small question: don’t you know how much I care? —how much i care, by rani
—photoset by ally
Their eyes are incredibly simple and yet they are so much more. The magic lying with them is something I’ll always adore. Their eyes are filled with stars glittering like a night sky and the constellations formed are too beautiful to deny. Their eyes are filled with nature like forests or quiet lagoons. Every time I look into them, the love inside me blooms. Their eyes are filled with colours that change under the light and each different shade elicits a new kind of delight. Their eyes are full of mystery that borders on ineffable and each detail just proves that they are simply incredible. —their eyes, by rani
journal entries by helena
letters Dear Friend, In the past few weeks, I’ve been doing a lot of self-evaluation. There’s a lot I don’t like about my life, so I’ve decided to change, as I see it as a waste of time to sit around loathing my lense to the world. I’m on a journey to reclaim the happiness I lost in the wake of a wave of trauma and love being myself again. As I do so, I hope that I can write to you a bit about my miniature epiphanies and share any advice that I’ve discovered and put into use for myself. I do have a few in this letter, actually! The first, and perhaps the most useful one for you, friend, is to stop worrying so much about what you think of yourself. Everyone is yapping about how you need to stop caring what others think and love yourself, but nobody talks about how trying to love yourself leads to stress about how you think of yourself, which just makes being you so much harder. Instead of loving you, which requires you to separate yourself from... yourself, why don’t you just enjoy being yourself? You don’t get to be anyone else, of course, and there are so many lovely things about you, I’d certainly love to be you if I wasn’t me. To love being you, of course, you have to love things you do, things that alter your experience and differentiate it from others. One of the best ways to do this is indulgence. Indulging in your interests, tastes, wants, and passions creates your world. What each of these subjects means is entirely different from person to person, dear, but it is so important to wield each wisely to craft your life the way you want it. You are more in control of your experiences than you might imagine. If you feel like you are not, I’d advise taking some time away from technology and spend time getting to know yourself. I know that this is annoying and repetitive, but it’s coming from a well-intentioned heart. It’s easy to get lost scrolling through social media, lose track of time, and let go of the reins you have on life. It’s even easier to lose your own opinions to what everyone else says you should feel. Set aside time each evening and park your phone somewhere. Play music and dance, create art, write about your feelings and
embed them in characters, explore your interests, write an essay on something you’re passionate about. Or perhaps these are just the things I enjoy doing. What would you rather do? If you’d like to write me back, I’d adore hearing from you. You can contact me via tumblr [@frockhag] if you’d like to start a conversation. I’d love to listen to your thoughts and offer any help I can if you need. I hope something comforts you today. —dear friend, by kayla
You appeared to me suddenly and took over my whole world by posing as a loving oasis in which I saw nothing amiss. I was lured into your promise of completing my journey but I somehow didn’t realise you meant that as my demise. Giving you the keys to my heart is something I’ll always regret but now I am far more aware of which parts in me to share. You didn’t warn me when you left as if I was nothing in your eyes, just another lonely traveller who fell for your illusion of colour. But you didn’t stop and consider that people can bloom from pain so keep your mirage of love and watch me grow further above. —mirage, by rani
I used to believe that love was overrated, a perpetual goal that was never meant to be taken seriously but accidentally became classed as one of the most important things in everyone's lives, no matter who you were. I used to think love mainly consisted of untimely commitment, stolen kisses, and experiences judged by how quickly or how far they can spread. I used to think love was unreasonable, full of a hope that only worked until you learned the truth and realised that this idea of intimate gestures and coordinating outfits wasn't worth the hype that media painted it out to be. I used to be wrong. It took me days of regret, months of realisation, constant self-correction, restless nights filled with fluctuating self-esteem, and the odd existential crisis here and there to figure out what love can truly be. Love, I decided, can manifest itself in the most peculiar of ways: an insanely consistent set of top grades, forever immaculate acrylic nails, effortless and immediately recognisable style, immortal inside jokes, or even a quiet appreciation that goes unnoticed by most. It can be seen by those who aren't looking for it and missed by those who are because it remains hushed, not needing the validation of popularity. Love, I decided, is not something to be defined by mere alphabets. As if being enigmatic and ever-changing wasn't enough, love is also wholly subjective and dependant on the individual. To some, love is the warmth of a genuine smile or intertwined fingers on a cold day but, to others, love is sharing a body spray or explaining the notes from a missed class because familiar metaphors work better than new analogies. Love, I decided, is unpredictable. Some can lose themselves in the lyrics of a song where others can climb inside books and forget their worries; some can call their friends at ridiculous times and know they'll have someone to listen; some can arrange a time and place knowing that they'll do absolutely nothing, a friendly presence being the most important thing; and some can never utter words that reveal their inner emotions but reflect them with their facial expressions or actions instead.
Equally natural and mysterious, love is a term used both too commonly and not commonly enough. It's not as simple as a sentiment, it's a lifestyle that can't be categorised or easily recognised. Not limited to people, love can be expressed for just about anything we can - and can't - fathom. Regardless of whether it's circle theorems, midday naps, exhausting shopping hauls, or staring at the stars on a cloudless night, love is there with you. It follows you around like a shadow forged from promises and happiness, laced with hope and healing and learning curves. It festers, but it's not unwanted. It doesn't have to touch you to fill you with power, with confidence, and sometimes, with a sense of overwhelming sadness that cannot be described. It's weird. Ultimately, love isn't all about being comfortable, it's more like accepting that you're uncomfortable but managing to function nonetheless. In contrast to popular belief, love isn't when you never feel upset and always feel on top of the world, it's when you know you're free to be melancholy because your sadness isn't what defines you. Because, like it or not, love is what keeps the world spinning. Of course, love is not two dimensional; very few things are and abstract concepts can never be one of them, not as long as thoughtful beings like us are around to question, confuse, and complicate. Like most complex ideas, love can be painful and bitter and far more hurtful than even the sharpest of weapons, but it is always there, shifting and adapting, ready to battle on our behalf as soon as we believe in its existence. So, why don't we? Why don't we believe in love? —why don’t we believe in love?, by rani
tell me all about you what you’re thinking of when the light hits you up there, framed by gold me down here, seeking more textures illumine like a blessing with kaleidoscope hues for us, a view exquisite — forever, a curse for you up close with essence distilled everything is nothing but pigments and molecules my life worth a nickel your smile - seven figures gilded by precious metal your empty eyes reflect a soft glow but with the line, an abyss, from afar, it’ll suffice to gaze upon you lasting beauty preserved at the end of time. but at the end of day, the lights go off and the gates, they shut no one can touch you, but no one can touch you. —the loneliness of dried paint, by nicole
My room smells of death, Maybe a warning received too late. The skin softens, But does not heal, When you do not show up, When this is the 32nd time I write about you, When it took my 4 hours to get out of bed on wednesday. The skin loosens, Makes space for Another Set of heartbeats, For another palm that I can doodle Stars on, Only what’s necessary. Think pockets. How convenient not to have to bring a bag, How they all have a cut, Hold the weight of another, How on the good days, I’m a string, How I think I’ve only ever been truly kind To you (and my grandmother) I have no kind left in me, Only the sleepiness, Trips to the coffee shop. I chip my nailpolish when I want to stop the anxiety, I give myself something I know how to fix. I’ve always wanted an older brother So tell me
About your sister, About times when you wished she never existed, Tell me how I can compress the tissue, Mold the bone To fit Into a cardboard box, we can call it a rocketship If you want. How do you deal with change that has not happened yet? When I vacuum, I do not think about you, I look at you, Wait for you to finish Tying your shoelaces, What do I do now, That I don’t miss you?
—sing me a prayer, by alice
i. hometown "Can you imagine a life here?" It was a warm summer evening and we were sitting in the dimly lit university campus, in the centre of our hometown corner. The stars were fighting for spotlight on the dark sky, but the city rustle scared them away. She moved her dark hair from her face and looked at me, waiting for an answer. I chuckled. "No. Definitely not." A knowing smile spread across her face. She stood up, grabbed my hand and started to walk away from the campus back under the street lights. I didn't dare to break the silence, the moment floated in time and I looked at the gentle curves of her face. We walked all the way to a broken fountain and she urged me to sit down. "I feel so restricted. Rules are too intense here. I'm glad someone gets it." I smiled. "I agree. Well, we have the entire future ahead of us." "We do." A few hours later we were at the bus station. I saw my bus approaching in the distance. "We'll see each other again?" "Of course." She replied and hugged me. When I got on the bus and turned around to wave, she was gone.
ii. unfamiliar A school trip took us to an unfamiliar city. Everyone but the two of us was asleep at 2 am. She took the bag of candy from my grip and put it on the cabinet next to the bed. "I want to go outside." "Are you insane? We'll get caught." She moved closer and studied my face. "Don't you want to live a little?" I could hear my heart beating as her eyes looked into mine. "Yeah." "Let's go, then. I noticed a side exit on the right."
It was dead silent outside, but she was beaming. She guided me to a clearing further away from the hotel and we relaxed on the soft grass. "You can see the stars here," I said. The sky was full of little white specs, finally having their time to shine.
iii. new normal I fell for a different girl in a different city a year after I said goodbye to our hometown, but the new girl had short ginger hair and was looking at the stars with someone who she liked more than me. The three of us were having a sleepover, but I felt excluded and walked inside to make some muffins as an attempt to brush off the empty feeling of unrequited. "You don't want to be here, do you?" I recognized her voice and turned around. There she was, with her dark hair and charming smile. More accurately, the version of her I saw last. The present her was back in our hometown, living a life I wasn't a part of anymore. "How are you still with me?" I asked and still hoped for an explanation as to why she was on my mind after so long. "I just want you to feel happy. Free." I let out a bitter laugh as I put the dough into the mixer and her face dropped to a frown. "I don't know if that's possible anymore." She sighed. "I get it, you don't want me around." "No, wait-" I grasped for her, but all that was left was an empty room and the sound of the mixer twirling.
iv. far away The last time I saw her was far away from our hometown, on a train ride in the London underground. The midnight train was half empty and I was returning back to my hotel after my first day of exploring the city. A mix of tired and excited was flowing through my veins and I sank into the seat, feeling content.
I noticed her in the corner of my eye after the few remaining people exited the train. I stared in surprise as she made her way to me and stood in front of the exit. "I see you're having fun." She leaned against the glass and buttoned up her black coat. "You're right, I am." She twirled a thread around her finger. "I'm glad. I know you always wanted to go to London." A few minutes passed with the train rumble filling the distance between us. She looked the same but felt different. I saw her more like a stranger than I ever did before. The robotic voice from the speaker announced the next stop and she straightened her posture. Right before the train stopped, we locked eyes. "I found a place where I can imagine living. I hope you did as well." I whispered. She put on a smile, but I could tell she was being honest. "I knew you would. I did too." The doors opened and she got lost in the sea of people rushing through the station, truly leaving what we had behind. On the next stop, I did the same.
—the 3 times she said she’d leave, and the 1 time she actually did, by kian
the feeling of belonging is one of those things that's difficult to explain, but makes perfect sense when you experience it. it tugs at your mind with urgency, softly whispering i’m supposed to be here and how did you never find this place before and i don't want to leave it engulfed me during the late evening in central london, with people still buzzing around me. i floated in a cloud of wonder and excitement, ignoring the consequences of walking around all day. after years of hoping and waiting, i found it. i found a place where instead of wanting to escape, i felt overwhelmed with wanting to explore and learn every crevice of these streets. the parks, the shops, the people, the english spilling from my tongue. i feel free, i thought, i feel free. the melancholy hit after the fourth day, when i watched the buildings become smaller and smaller through the plane window. a piece of my heart stayed somewhere on an underground train, but a sparkle of new found hope followed me back and settled into the empty space. —my heart stayed in london, by kian
—by ally
It’s so easy to feel small. It’s easy when you’re standing still in the middle of a moving crowd. Everyone around is pushing past you, pushing by you. They have their own agendas and own priorities; a million varying places to go, things to get done, people to see. Having conversations: talking about where they just were or where they’ll go next. Rushing and bumping into you. Movement and noise and chaos all around. And you’re so very still, quiet, and stuck in the middle of it all. It’s easy when you’re in the window seat of a jam-packed airplane, watching the plane take off. Being pressed backwards into the seat as the plane moves faster, the wheels lifting from the ground, and watching as the usually gigantic world shrinks smaller, smaller, smaller. Watching cars and houses and buildings turn into miniature versions of themselves, and then slowly fade away as you lift up into the clouds. Then suddenly, in a couple of moments, the clouds that always seem light years from your touch are just out of reach. You’re separated by a window, and that’s it. One foot to your right and you’d be engulfed in the sky that always seems so distant, so far. It’s easy when you’re laying on your back in an open field, staring up at the stars as the sky grows progressively darker. More and more stars appearing by the minute, starting as tiny specks and brightening every second. You feel small when you’re thinking about how big each one of those specks must be up close, and comparing it to how small they look right now. It’s easy when you wonder if they ever look up at you too, and how absolutely tiny you must look to all of them. When you wonder if they could even see you at all. It’s easy when you think about the actual odds of you existing at this singular moment in time. Your life is 1 in 6 billion potential “you’s” that could have been here instead. 6 billion differing appearances, personalities, opinions, mannerisms. Compare that to the 6 billion possible “them’s” for the person sitting next to you. And the next person, and the next person. Everything could have ended up vastly different if even one of those outcomes had changed. All those odds and you ended up here, in this moment, in this place, at this time, as this person.
In those moments, you slip so effortlessly into feelings of isolation, and insignificance. It’s so easy to feel small when it’s you against the world. When you consider yourself in relation to the entire universe. When you wonder what significance you could possibly hold when everything around you is so much bigger. But while you may be small compared to the world and all the galaxies, it does not mean you are any less significant, or any less powerful. You may be physically small but you are complex and beautiful. You have millions of parts and pieces intertwined and inter-working: you are made up of tiny little atoms that make up who you are and help you function. Without them, you wouldn’t be able to do half the things you do; without them, you wouldn’t be you. Just think — you can’t see those atoms very easily but they are still necessary. Maybe you’re just one of the universe’s atoms. Sometimes unseen, but always important. Without you, the world wouldn’t fit together quite as well. Without you, the universe wouldn’t be its true self. You may be physically small but you have feelings and emotions deeper than any star. You care about others to the point where it hurts you when they are hurting. You sometimes feel joy so intense that you physically can’t stop yourself from smiling, and throw your arms around the person closest to you. You can feel love so strongly it feels like it’s trying to break it’s way out of your chest; love so strong that you feel as though you could never feel any other feeling for as long as you live. You think deeper than any of the planets, recognizing your existence and your passions and your purpose. You still break, but unlike the stars, you feel the hurt. You conquer the pain and the sadness and you use it to grow and learn and propel yourself forward into a better, brighter you. You may be physically small but you sure can make a big difference in the universe around you. Your life has come into contact with countless other lives. Every single person in your life would change if you hadn’t met them. Your mom wouldn’t have someone to care for with a deep, uniquely personal love, and guide through life until you’re grown enough to do it on your own. Your little sister wouldn’t have anyone to look up to, and wouldn’t have realized her passions in
life without seeing you pursue yours first. Your childhood best friend would not have had nearly as many laughs while growing up if you hadn’t been there to laugh first. Every single person you’ve smiled at, complimented, or simply spoken to in your lifetime is different because of you. You may be small but you have the power to change the life of anyone you encounter. There are many times where you feel you are too small and the world is too big to handle. But in reality, your little impact on someone you know can lead to another, and to another, and soon enough you’ve changed the life of someone halfway across the world, even if you never realize it. Little ripples in a big ocean still change the direction the water flows. You may be physically small but you’ve got a galaxy’s worth of significance inside of you. No matter how big the universe is and how many moving pieces there are, you still have significance. The world may make you seem small but in so many ways it is proven that you are not. One day, you’ll recognize your significance, and realize just how small the world is in relation to you —a galaxy’s worth, by helena