NOUS 2 - The Disconnection Issue

for

modern

mindculture

nous

and

visual

magazine

philosophy

two

THE DISCONNECTION ISSUE

summer 2013 free team

trident

press

daniel

cooper

cover photography

hannah

kirkbride

illustration

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3

balthazar

words from sinking ship

I can feel it coming up

and spreading inside of me.

It warms the blood and it eats away the memory.

From my pen you expected the sweet honey to drip,

but the words come out like rats leaving a sinking ship.

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disconnection

estrangement

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EDITORIAL 10

W E F E L L T O O FA R F R O M O U R TREES words James Bell illustration Daniel Zitka 12

CLOSING TIME

words Adam Steiner photography Johannes Gierlinger 18

T H E AT R I C S

words Jake Duff photography Fabian Nerstheimer 30

illustration Sophie Barrott

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METEORITENRESTE

w o r d s M i c h a e l We h r m a n n 36

THE PLAGUE

words Emily Godden photography Michal Brzezinski 42

photography Andrew Kalashnicov 34

THE ARDUOUS PLAIN

words E illustration Christine Rรถsch 48

COUNTING DOWN

words Graham Rimmer illustration Christian Buchner

kelli

sara

folley

nous

two

photography contributors

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4

reconnection

closeness

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74

words Saleha Begum p h o t o g ra p hy M o n a Va r i c h o n

words Katy Gilroy illustration Carl McBride

STRANGERS 54

photography Anna Rose Heaton 58

WEEKEND

words Zach Roddis photography Liam Brown 62

MAGIC WONDER SARCASMOGASM

JUST AN IDEA 76

CONNECTED

c o n v e r s a t i o n To m a n d L a u r e n illustration Simone Karl 87

photography Carlota Gonzalez Miguez

interview Vineta Gailite with Dmitry Smirnov illustration Sian Morrell 70

photography Ashlea Smyth

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IMPRINT

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one

disconnection

1 disconnection

kelli

sara

folley

photography

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we fell too far from our trees words James Bell

illustration Daniel Zitka

james daniel

bell zitka

words illustration

Can we please speak easy despite our decadent, descendant hats?

Retreat behind your mother’s brim Or the heavy stone mor tar Once your father’s order s.

There’s dust in your smut he once said, with unpride.

Plankwalk to bluer oceans, hopeless schools.

Has the familial farce failed Us, the residual individuals?

Dream your wooden dreams for she’ll watch from your canopy home.

Rolling onward, the mark of the masked axeman i s a s o u n d w e ’ l l n e v e r h e a r.

Add another ring, it ’ll make no dif ference.

For our ringed eyes say more than our creased mouths And as our solidarity strengthens I fear more than a falling oak.

In the space that ’s lef t behind there’ll never be a burdened child.

Only a short-lived father and a mother whose mind traces coffee stains a n d u s e d p a p e r.

And I won’t even mention the fire and i t s f a i l u r e t o i g n i t e p r o p e r l y.

These are my apologies.

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johannes

gierlinger

adam

Resigned (but not yet redundant) this is the place of the »temporarily indisposed«.

steiner

photography closing time

closing

Some seen drinking from the hand wash, not much alcohol words Adam Steiner in it, but enough to kill germs photography and remaining Johannes Gierlinger brain cells.

He’s used for Bunched up death and sold for glue, now too tired around the sink they go suckling at what to push and pull; Jada won’t wash, makes them sick. Eyes caught cattle-wide won’t shave, but if you can’t conform –someone’s coming–mixing-in salivas as you have to leave. Just another face they nourish illusion, then scatter, giving in the scene with the other drowning pace to the trick. Reverting to school-kid ones hung out to dry, now faded and shtick they love to misbehave for its own greying. Some relapse, some never sake, much easier than waking up to life. arrive, but most just keep coming back.

On the surface it’s a gaggling gallery, They drink eagerly, keep sip-sipping smiling wild with matey kisses and so insipid, and always towards death. laughing over one another. Then she Muttering under stale breath, they enters to pull the plug; they scatter ask for the latest party. Love to swap under covers licking red, worn lips to drinking stories, savour last traces to remember S m i l i n g w i l d w i t h but the thirst’s being free, when never quenched. matey k isses. it was new and the Nurse takes taste was real enough. the spent gel pack away from harm, Now all their evenings end alone, glaring out at the soft-snoring fake once the bar calls time and the doors reachers, she knows that sickness too are firmly closed you have to go home. well, you can smell it on the breath.

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Next day Jada, another arch-complainer, formerly James, waddles with bow legs trailing like a fishtail, resting on his floating wrists via (borrowed) Zimmer.

No good with names, not much good with anything, he struggles to pin me down.

Reeling off ticker-tape of slurred sounds,

fixes on »N« but never quite getting all the way to the end. Pouted lips swirl, whooshing and blister-pecked, in a vacuum of dulled reach he projects lexicon chaos:Nnniigeniiiikkekno oormaanaaththththtthhhhnnneeeeeeeil?« His tongue rolls pure loquacious, a lolling, blunt instrument –too many thumbs around fine letters to hit the syllables on time and keep step.

johannes

gierlinger

adam

Barely in sync with himself, he’s out from our world, a non-functioning member of a narrow society, feel every pothole in the dunk, thunk, vwls mssng-shred of his scattered dialect.

steiner

photography closing time

We spin our time away mis-explaining things: »I am ‘n alcoholic, yeh. I jst want to ddrink,« cuts air with twitching hand,

»I wnt people to jst leave me alun to drnk. But doctorss telt me that ‘ff I do »It’s Nathan.« then I’ll die real qwik. Iuv only got three »Yeh Nathun, tht’s it!« quartrs of my liverr left, itsz not enuff.

So when I gou, He gives half Im jst gonna drnk Wa i t i n g for f u l l mself to deth. grin with too few b o d i l y s u r r e n d e r. teeth set in lips But I’m def nt that permanently stayin ear anymre, shake. His quickened throat rages, itsz lik a prson. I bin thre nd evn something vile comes up and into prsnsz lss lk prsn thn ere man!« the hand. Red at the gills, he drools through his loose grasp, wiping the Only see the light by pin-prick holes, slur on the corner of nearby bed. He the world polarised to mere horizon pick, picks nervously at fingernails, slit. He’s living through trapped yellow cuticles receding, there’s apertures, now shirking life, dreaming nothing left to rebuild or regenerate. the daytime extinct. Jada stumbles on See Jada resting on the frame, to solemn forty-two: nothing left now bouncing softly, still buoyed on secret to say or do. Kicks his beat heels waiting springs, tired but they won’t let him for full bodily surrender, clanging go to bed too early in the day. imagined chain against the world order what he feels »done him wrong«.

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His benefits seem to have been misplaced, passed-on direct to some third party, his distant half-daughter’s pulled the rug from under a falling man.

Today’s a good day, making him a pretty little pet. Dress him up but don’t think what it means to give and then take away. In borrowed clothes, the trappings of second-hand virtue, he’s pinned fast with grace shed from their charitable husbands’ hem. They crowd round to admire. Clean-shaven and allowed out for the occasional cigarette, Jada’s dressed-up so mild and meek, childlike he sneers – he’d cut out and run a mile if he could only walk unassisted.

He knows true sleep waits, lived through it too many times before, that mouth always lurches to one side, then rips open to a permanent yawn.

Embracing his right to damage, he slinks around devious, wanting to slip off in his own way. Sitting limp-kneed under constant observation, his He shuffles about, To o m a ny t h u m b s drizzled eyes she circles in her a r o u n d f i n e l e t t e r s . rattle like rain gilded duty, Queen on zinc, it gives for a day, but he’s tremors as he wobbles, more steps in playing at pawn just to satisfy them. Let shuffling stupor, heavily chocked on the nurses enjoy something good for a Solpadeine that stops him thinking change, so they can say: »we made that« (feeling) too much, stark reminders such fun to try and rehabilitate a wrecked etched on the window panes. cause into »a real person«, just like them.

Fix him up good enough to leave, then let him carry on until he finds his own But Jada’s not able to be satisfied, lonesome way in a crooked house with he lives only for desire and the no furniture and the front door left ajar. hollow ring of pleasurable dregs, so he goes on in shallow sobriety.

johannes

gierlinger

adam

steiner

photography closing time

Each chooses his own choice: to be drunk, to forget … and something … and then, to go on forgetting. No one knows the reasons or where he’s been; I’ve never seen what’s in his file to make him act out this way, spurred on towards a long death. In half-stance he’s a magnetic Sebastian for society’s tut-tuts, they shoot-off so easy but always maintain distance, such little things swell in a selfish, petty world.

Jada’s hung majestic from a nail, down to his diminishing tail, happy is a warming smile but it never lasts, little victories fade. Think I see him there in the dark, grinning toothy, just like John Smith, dying quietly in a countryside lay-by, out from all harm’s way – to be alone.

Closing time again, no more stories to be hissed between juddering teeth.

Restless hearts are closed-off, and Jada crows a deeper grave for himself. Tired of hoping, tired of trying, trapped as fly at wrong end of the bottle, he’ll die ...

... trying ...

… to find ... ... his own ... way

out.

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theatrics words Jake Duf f

photography Fabian Nerstheimer

fabian

I was to be t aken out .

nerstheimer jake

duff

photography theatrics

I arrive home and set my phone down at the bottom of the stairs.

The next morning I found myself slumped at the foot of my armchair, television off and curtains drawn – bottle of wine empty but for a slick at the bottom that had coagulated into more of a thick kind of stain.

It wasn’t exactly vintage, perhaps, but its two bottles for a fiver. I checked my phone; no messages, no missed calls, an email from a shop I once bought a CD from. Westlife, for my mother.

That is the peculiar contemporary meaning of the word »out« which invariably meant »in«. In the dank, choking armpit of some building where people jump around to music played by people who sing with accents that don’t even belong to them.

We’re worried about you, my friends said. Worried about what exactly, I’m not sure. We approached this »club« and I pulled out I was on my my cigarettes. Go A s i f I w o u l d g i v e knees, not for ahead, I say. I’ll prayer not meet you at the bar. t h e m e r e s t t r a c e for pleasure, of a fuck.

I tried to sound all staring up in my enthusiastic and bathroom at an »up for it« but as usual it came out open window willing it to close. sounding sarcastic, I light a cigarette I had been here for almost 20 minutes and watch my friends walk up the shifting my legs when they began to stairs. As soon as the door swings closed tingle unpleasantly. I could feel the behind them I throw my cigarette into gaps between the tiles imprint on my a puddle and get into a taxi, mumbling skin and my lips felt as though there an excuse to the driver as if he gives were tiny lice struggling to get out, my even the merest trace of a fuck.

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fabian

nerstheimer jake

duff

photography theatrics

yes were dry and I wanted to turn out the light but I didn’t want to lose my grip on the porcelain and chip a tooth.

By six the sun had gone and the temperature outside had dropped further, it was vastly unpleasant leaving the house but I was once again being taken »out«. I didn’t ask where, I just hoped that it was somewhere quiet and empty. A small man stood outside a pub and smoked, looking at a poster advertising the release of a new film. On the poster there was a woman, beautiful, looking nervously behind her while a boy dressed in rags took pictures of her.

The background was yellow, she wore a green backpack and had green eyes.

I had no idea what the time was but I could hear the television faintly downstairs and it sounded as though the news was either just about to begin or had just finished and the sun was up so I guessed it must not have been too late.

I had all day to make myself clean and healthy and good and tomorrow I would wake up feeling clean and healthy and good and everybody would see this and I wouldn’t need to be taken »out« again because people were »worried«.

I wouldn’ t need to be t aken »out« again.

The film looked like some cheap romantic comedy

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fabian

nerstheimer jake

duff

photography theatrics

but something in her eyes and the twist of her lips made me feel uneasy.

The boy dressed in rags had a kind of sincere smile and neat hair, the camera he was using looked old but kind of professional. I had stopped walking and was staring for god knows how long before my concentration was broken by my friend, who had emerged from this pub and asked what on earth I had been doing. I sat down at a small table in a quiet room to two pints of cloudy cider, pleasantly surprised by the lack It was of people around. minutes My friend wanted e i t h e r o f to know why I hadn’t a s o u n d . been out for so long, and what I had been doing with myself, how I was coping with »everything«.

I said nothing for a while, surprised when I got to the bottom of my glass. I had not eaten since the day before and there was that not altogether pleasant rushing feeling behind my eyes.

I got up, a little uneasily, and walked to the bar with that bizarre gait people adopt when they’re all too aware of the alcohol in their system.

I returned with two pints of cloudy cider, noticing that my friend had yet to make much of dint in the first pint.

My friend was browsing Facebook, reading through old messages and I didn’t mind in the slightest, in fact it was twenty minutes before either of us made a sound. I was still thinking about that movie poster.

Who designed it? t w e n t y A movie poster b e f o r e has to convey a u s m a d e lot of information at once, it has to establish characters, it has to establish tone, it has to appeal to its target demographic.

I could not understand what her expression was supposed to convey.

It was somebody’s choice to make that expression, and not necessarily the choice of the actress; it could very easily have been tweaked in post-production with

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some kind of editing software. Somebody No, nothing like that, comes the sat down and thought to themselves »this reply. Then what? My friend finishes is what I want to convey with this poster«. the first pint and makes a start on the second. I look at my drink and note Money was spent, meetings were had that I’m just about halfway, maybe a and for what? It occurred to me that little less. The glass is half empty. Ha. I might be the only one who couldn’t understand it, maybe it was me that was We’re no closer to a solution or anything the alien here. that resembles a I ask my friend meaningful (or about the poster, even meaningless) my friend doesn’t conversation. even look up My phone goes from the phone. off twice in my I wait another pocket, first time five minutes, in days. I wait for listing the facial my friend to make expressions I the inevitable DID recognize excuse and we and tallying part ways. them against I try my hardest the actress. not to look at the poster as I leave Pensive? but as I start my Worried? walk home I find Exasperated? myself walking Happy? back down the street so I can look at it some more.

No. I ask again, there’s an apology and the phone disappears into a pocket.

I light a cigarette and spend a good My friend says the actress looks bored, ten minutes, chain smoking and looking and posits that the man dressed in at every minute detail of it: The font, rags is an ex-lover who can’t leave the colour of her lipstick, the colour of her alone. Like a stalker, I asked? his shoes, the border around the poster

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itself – trying desperately to mine some information from it. The more I stared, the more likely it seemed that the film could be a western, or a science fiction, or a horror, or a porno, anything at all.

It was driving me mad. I made up my mind to go to the cinema and watch the damn thing, knowing full well I would absolutely hate it.

But who goes to the fucking cinema by themselves?

Oh God, was it really happening?

Pretty soon I’d be getting calls from my mother asking when I would be finding someone nice and settling down.

I knew of people I was at school with that were married, with fucking children and a house with an oven and a fridge that could hold more than half a dozen Milky Bar yoghurts and a bottle of wine.

Then I remembered that each of these people were in fact absolutely awful and that I hated then, and still hate them.

I arrived home a little tipsy, set my phone down on the floor by the stairs and tore off my shoes. Checked the time and determined that going to bed would be a bad idea without a glass of wine or two in me.

I sat and struggled to get comfortable, thought for a minute about turning on the television but knew it would leave me feeling on edge, thought about reading a book but knew I would wind up reading the same sentence over and over, thought about putting some music on but knew I would browse my albums for hours and hours and never find an album I felt like listening to.

I reached for my laptop, knowing full well how I would end up on that site looking at that person’s profile and feeling fucking wretched.

fabian

Then I would attempt to masturbate myself better and spend hours trying to find porn that didn’t make me feel like hanging myself, only to wake up exactly as I do every morning to empty bottles of wine and a pop up video of someone masturbating noisily into a webcam.

Before this, I logged into that site and noticed two new messages.

I cast my mind back to earlier in the night when I felt my phone go off, it was probably that. I was curious, but at the same time terrified. I both wanted to and desperately didn’t want to open these messages.

What if they were from that person?

They wouldn’t be, of course but what if?

WHAT IF?!

I closed that site and attempted with little success to distract myself with another site. Pictures of cats and what have you.

I woke up slumped next to a broken lamp and a stain on my carpet.

nerstheimer jake

duff

photography theatrics

The sound of someone masturbating frantically screamed from my laptop, the panting matching perfectly with the pounding inside my head.

That had to go. I checked that site and the message notifications had disappeared, which means I must have at some point opened them.

I wasn’t sure if I was glad I didn’t remember or not, all I wanted was coffee and toast and maybe a quick can of weak lager, but before I could rouse myself into acquiring these things there was a knock at the door. I didn’t open it, sat still for 10 minutes while whoever the hell it was knocked for far too long. Just as I thought I was safe in the kitchen swigging my can while the kettle boiled, there was another knock at the door.

Who had to see me that fucking badly that they would knock on twice in twenty minutes? I was going to answer the door. That would be my achievement for today. I cut my foot on a shard from the broken lamp and screamed

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bloody fucking hellfire, whoever was at my door was so startled they stopped mid-knock; clutching my foot (which now resembled a raw steak).

I hobbled over to the door and thrust it open, forgetting to unlock it and sending myself careening backwards. The second attempt was more successful, revealing a very concerned looking parent.

Why had I not called. Why indeed.

I couldn’t explain that one without sounding, uhhh, terse. What I wanted to say was that I hadn’t called for much the same reason I hadn’t put my hand in a blender, i.e. I really didn’t want to. I explained instead that I was busy. The parent asked what it was I was busy with. I gave no reply.

The conversation carried on in this Can I come in, the parent asked. manner for about an hour, until the parent looked in my fridge and saw that Do you have there was no to, I asked.

I h a d n ’ t c a l l e d f o r food save for 3 much the s a m e or 4 spring rolls What happened I swiped from a reason I h a d n ’ t buffet at work to your foot? p u t my h a n d i n a last week, all Just get in wrapped in tin foil. b l e n d e r. the house.

You know, to keep them nice and fresh. The parent The parent demanded to know immediately threw them in the bin and where I had been for the other asked why I had no food in. I almost said parent’s birthday meal. I explained that I had eaten it all the night before that I was busy that night. in a mad drunken feeding frenzy, but This did not satisfy the parent.

I was frightened that I would be taken

fabian

seriously; instead I opted to just tell the truth which was that I had been living of chips for the past month or so.

I found myself bundled into a car and driven to the shops, where I was bought things that had been pulled from the earth and required complex preparation with intricate instruments – things like carrots and broccoli. All I wanted was those 9p packets of noodles that you could microwave, but I was told they were making me look »pale« and that my hair was looking »lank«.

Maybe that’s the look I’m trying to go for, I swear there was a time where looking unhealthy was cool.

It’ll come back round, I bet you; but then the price of noodles would probably shoot up and I would have to find something even more grotesque and cheap to eat; to maintain my edge.

Some days after, I woke up in my bed.

Nothing to drink the night before, so my head was clear as can be; obviously it wasn’t. I missed the headache and the

nerstheimer jake

duff

photography theatrics

disgusting taste in my mouth, it was like waking up to find your lover gone.

I expected a break-up letter by my pillow: »We used to have fun, we used to dance and laugh and talk for hours.

Why did it have to change?

Maybe it’s me that changed, maybe it’s you – but it’s not the same and this just isn’t the relationship I want to spend the rest of my life working on.

Don’t call me.

Sincerely, Your hangover« I noted that it wasn’t healthy for me to feel lonely without a hangover, but my bed felt all empty and cold. I went downstairs and ate an apple.

What the fuck. Something absurd happened. To begin with, I remembered the night before; I watched Alien with a packet of posh crisps and a glass of milk.

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fabian

nerstheimer jake

duff

photography theatrics

I f t his was a f ilm, I went into nothing; alright i t w o u l d b e r a i n i n g , another 5 minutes. the kitchen to fetch myself a a n d i t w a s r a i n i n g . I fucking said that Twix and came 20 minutes ago, back to a message on my phone. when the film was just about to start. I A day was mentioned, and a time, had some mad vision of myself cradling and a place. It happened in a matter of two bags of popcorn and two of those minutes, and I treated it like it wasn’t enormous buckets of carbonated fucking huge colossal terrifying. syrup looking like a maniac.

I had grip, I had purchase and I The image was so tragic I wanted to had control of the situation. throw up, and mostly because I could More importantly, I had a situation; see it happening. That is absolutely whereas before I had whatever the something I could see myself doing, opposite of a situation was. A fucking telling absolute strangers »don’t worry, giant yawning empty box on my they’re coming, they’re coming« with calendar, without so much as an arbitrary tears streaming down my face. national holiday in tiny writing.

Thank God I hadn’t quite reached I stood, dressed as well as I could that level yet. The level I had reached manage. If this was a film, it would was lighting a cigarette, finishing be raining and it was raining, on and it at lightspeed and making my off, but nothing like the torrential way to the bar across the road. rain you might see in a film.

Rodney Dangerfield had a routine That person was half an hour late and about waking up and there being I was stood outside, eyes fixed on a what he described as a kind of corner, waiting for that person to emerge »heaviness« waiting for him. from it looking hurried and apologetic He would greet the heaviness and and beautiful. Checked my phone, it would reply with something like

»ohhh, you’ll be drinking early today«. once more, an email. This time from In fact, I don’t actually remember some job site advertising a position there being a punchline, but here I cleaning the carpets at a bookies. My foot am. Drinking early. Hi, heaviness. started to hurt again, I limped home.

I was hoping to get drunk enough The line is neither thick nor thin, the that I would eventually stagger into line is beyond width and ever shifting. the cinema and just watch the bastard Between theatrics and genuine contempt film by myself, hate it completely, and there is such a gulf of middle ground, either walk out 20 minutes in or wake replete with vultures circling and old up to someone flashing a torch in my bones baking, half submerged in sand; eyes telling me to get the fuck out. you can spot lonely would-be explorers Either one would count as a victory. crawling parched and sunstroked, clawing By my third cocktail I noticed a couple at a cruel mirage just distant enough that staring at me. Not it tricks you into in a cool »of all the thinking you might T h e k i n d o f p i t y joints you could make it if you really y o u m i g h t r e s e r v e exert yourself. have walked into« way but a kind of By the time for someone who threatening way. g o t h e r p e s f r o m a you’ve frittered In fact, I wasn’t away that last sure whether it was j e l l y b a b y. joule of energy a threatening look and come up or some new strain of pity; the kind of with nothing to show for it you realize pity you might reserve for someone who you made a bad choice, but somehow got herpes from a jelly baby. Yeah it’s the crawl back is a short stroll. hilarious, but that poor cunt. Obviously It’s not a question of being tough, it’s I just left, and for reasons I can’t explain, not a question of how badly you want to took up my post outside the cinema see what’s there on the other side – it’s once more and chain smoked, all the a question of how hard you are pushed while staring at that same corner. before you’re so filled with contempt, A mother pulled her child closer as for yourself and others, you’ve no option she walked past and scowled at me, it but to make the trip just to preserve had started raining a little heavier and I whatever dregs of self-respect you could wanted to be sick. I checked my phone wring from your dry, bloated bile-duct.

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sophie

barrott

illustration

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kelli

sara

folley

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michael

two

wehrmann

estrangement meteoritenreste

Das Mondfahrzeug hat ein gutes Getriebe, ich geb e Voll gas und ho lp er e üb er Kalk landsc haf ten weiß wie Gletscherbrüche, Milchstraße leuchtet, Milla ist noch auf der Erde und schreibt mir Kurznachrichten, aber ich antworte nicht. Mein Raumanzug ist beheizt, ich sehe aus wie ein schwereloser Schneemann. Ich kann durch mein Chromvisier sehen, wenn auf der Erde die Raketenabschussrampen zum Einsatz kommen, jetzt gerade Wasserstof fantrieb, ein Glühwürmchen unter der Hemisphäre. Hier auf dem Mondkörper weiß man s c h o n n i c h t m e h r, w e l c h e K r i e g e e i g e n t l i c h g e f ü h r t werden. Die Weltmetropolen der Erde dienen als Raketenstar tplätze, wenn eine gezündet wird, siegt e i n Wo l ke n g o t t ü b e r Wo l ke n k r a t z e r. M i l l a w o h n t i n einer dieser Weltmetropolen, sie schreibt manchmal, dass die Raketenstar ts fehlgehen. Milla lebt noch.

Ich mondhüpfe vom Steuerpult in die Nichtluft - ein Meteoriteneinschlag. Es könnten Wassermengen sein, ich funke der Raumstation. Wir begehren Staatssouveränität und haben den Kontakt zur Erde vollends abgebrochen. Es existieren Blaupausen einer Mondmetro.

Milla schreibt mir erneut, ich erinnere mich an ihr en Venushü gel und die Raumkojen sind eng, die russische Astronautin auch, wir kommen und schweben dann wie Molekularteilchen. Ich antworte nicht, weil je mehr ich mich von der Umlaufbahn der Erde entfernt habe, desto weniger Mensch bin i c h , o d e r d e s t o m e h r.

Ich habe Feierabend und hocke auf dem Westflügel der Raumstation. Meteoritenreste ähneln Schneepar tikel. Raketenstar ts gibt es jetzt keine m e h r. M i l l a s c h r e i b t n i c h t m e h r.

meteoriten reste words Michael Wehrmann

The moon vehicle has

The metropolises

Milla is writing again;

got a good transmission.

serve as missile

I remember her mound

s t one sc ener y. W h it e

god prevails over

female cosmonaut, too.

I am f looring it and am

jolting through the lime like icefalls, milky way

glowing, Milla is still on Earth and is sending me

shor t stories. But I don’t a n s wer. My s p ac e s u i t

is heated. I look like a weightless snowman.

Through my chrome

launching sites,

once fired, a cloud

a sk y s c r ap er. M i l l a

lives in one of these

metropolises, sometimes she would write about a failed missile take-off.

Milla is still alive.

I moon-jump from

ventail I can watch

the control panel into

hydrogen propulsion,

v o l u m e s o f w a t e r,

the rocket launch pads in action, right now a firef ly under the

hemisphere. Here on the moon body it is already forgotten which wars are being faught.

of Venu s a nd t he s p ac e berths are tight, the

We come a nd f loat l i ke molecular particles.

I d o n o t a n s w e r,

because, the further I

go from the orbit ot the Earth, the less human I become, or the more.

It ’s home t i me f or me

the non-air - meteorite

and I am sitting in the

I radio the space

resemble snow particles,

impact. It could be

s t at ion . We desi r e s t at e sovereignity and cut

communication to Earth c omple t el y. Bluepr i nt s of a moon metro exist.

west wing of the space

station. Meteorite relics

there are no more rocket launches. Milla stopped writing.

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the plague words Emily Godden

photography Michal Brzezinski

E m i l y ’s p o em s a r e c on s t r uc t e d on a line-by-line basis, forming stanzas as she progresses through existing texts.

She removes words from the page and places them in a new line and a new context. Emily manipulates punctuation to construct a poetic finish from a prose beginning

For example in t he poem »T h e P l a g u e « o n t h e f o l l o w i n g page, she was reading the samenamed novel by Albert Camus when constructing the piece.

E m i l y i s 19 ye a r s old , c u r r en t l y studying Fine Art but she is also a w r i t er.

emily michal

godden

brezinski

the plague photography

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michal

brezinski

emily

godden

photography the plague

The general opinion was that they were misplaced.

Of course, there is nothing more normal nowadays.

They ’re c oming out: have you seen?

Ev e r y t h i n g w i l l b e b e t t e r, T h i n g s l i ke t h a t h a p p e n , They expired – hanging in the void.

N o t h i n g w a s m o v i n g , w e m u s t h e l p o n e a n o t h e r.

Freed from the dull sense of foreboding This was where fear began and with it, serious reflection.

There was no point. No one thought to do anything.

Divided between anxiety and confidence I could barely feel the first stirrings of that slight nausea.

The measures that been taken were insuf ficient.

It would not be defeated- in appearance nothing changed.

Vo i d of sense, unab le to r eac t against t he wounds Imagination eventually inflicts on those who trust in it.

T h i s w a s e x i l e . We u n d e r s t o o d o n e a n o t h e r.

Yo u a r e t a l k i n g t h e l a n g u a g e o f r e a s o n , I t s t i l l d i d n o t e n t i r e l y a c c o r d w i t h r e a l i t y.

I t w a s d e s i g n e d t o o p e r a t e i n t h i s w a y, t o f a d e a w a y…

Ev e r y t h i n g w a s s a c r i f i c e d t o e f f i c i e n c y, i n t r u t h Ever y thing bec ame present , there was only the here and now, This whole time was nothing more than a long sleep.

The explanation had to be found for it.

It was and yet it wasn’t. The others said nothing.

Ever y thing would begin again as though nothing had happened.

The distant sound of silence was total.

Yo u c o u l d h e a r t h e f r e e d o m .

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andrew

kalashnicov

photography

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the arduous plain words E

illustration Christine Rösch

I am sick of living through a grey existence, trying to spot any specs of technicolor within this painting.

Nothing in my life actually feels real.

It’s like it’s all been a depressing interlude between my childhood and something else. I feel like I’m in a nightmare, but a nightmare in which nothing especially happens.

Just the occasional piece of bad luck. It’s an art film’s nightmare.

I just want to enjoy the fruits of life again. This whole experience is hard to define, I barely feel like I even exist when I’m in it, it’s disconnects me from everything.

I feel like I’m constantly on a drug that I don’t even remember I’ve taken.

christine

And the interludes between the hazy existence in which I live take place are in which I restock my system with the shit.

It’s like I’m in a coma, living a life in my head.

It’s like I’m constantly on sense and emotion numbing antibiotics.

rösch e

illustration the arduous plain

trapped, in shackles, at the back of your mind; it’s like a bus, you’re trapped at the back of a school bus, on a journey to somewhere you do not know, being kept hostage by all the cunts you hated on the school bus that sat at the back, smoked and put everyone down, and the driver is out of reach, and driving maniacally towards wherever it is you’re going.

It’s like my mind is broken, that some wiring has disconnected, like a frequency isn’t getting through.

You feel like a powerless young child all over again, the victim of your own bullying subconscious. And the driver hates you. Occasionally, he’ll hit a curb I’m not okay. randomly just to fuck with you, or the kids on the bus will start jumping on And I haven’t been for a while. And you, calling you gay and asking you sometimes I can’t figure out which will stupid questions, making you feel even end first, it or my more insecure life. Because it Yo u f e e l l i k e a than usual. seems like there is You have no powerless y o u n g where to turn, only one of those child all o v e r no one to turn two options that I have power over. to and you can again.

When you’re under barely trust your the parasitical power of depression, reality, it’s that uncomfortable. you are powerless. You feel like you’re That’s depression.

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The whole wave of it makes you feel utterly powerless. You feel worthless and upset that you can’t do anything about it.

No matter how hard you try to distract yourself, to convince yourself that you’re an idiot for letting it get the better of you; because, after all, you’ve got a full family, you weren’t the victim of anything groundbreakingly horrific, you have X, Y, and Z to look forward to and you have food in your belly and a roof on your head. But it never helps. It never makes you feel better, or grateful.

It just stays the same. A long, grey field. A never-ending arduous plain.

It’s an illogical, indefinable and indescribable pit of suck that you’ve no idea how you got into, or any idea how to get the fuck out. There really isn’t enough sympathy for people suffering from depression.

You know, there are many times I’ll wake up and feel so shitty about life that I do not want to do anything. But you know what? It proves testament to my character that I do, because as much as it kills me to do, I do not want to let myself down or anybody else down by letting depression ruin my life.

It’s one of the reason why it gets me And if you’ve never suffered from down so much, is because I don’t let it depression, and defeat me and I you think you’ve A l o n g , g r e y f i e l d . don’t let it become got it all figured me, but yet, I cannot A n e v e r e n d i n g out that it’s just outrun it. It is always arduous plain. a grumpy mood on my back, and it you should snap is always a weight out of: fuck you.

I cannot remove. It will die and drop off one day, like a ghostly abortion.

You know nothing.

But until then, I fight on.

christine

rรถsch e

illustration the arduous plain

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counting down words Graham Rimmer

illustration Christian Buchner

12 3 4 5 I`m sorr y that number has not been rec ognised We r e you t r yin g to c atc h a f i sh alive?

Yo u c o u l d 141 Keep the key low 1471 No one Would ever Know Or A big grey cloud To c o u n t t h e b r i c k s As they hit on the way Down Rabbit holes To w o n d e r l a n d

graham christian

rimmer buchner

counting down illustration

Counting them down The days The days The gulf between 1 And 2 Hand to foot Buckle to shoe Stretch of 3 Onto 4 Shoe to floor And fist to door Counting up 5 6

Counting down On the way Stepping on cracks Falling back Counting on The days The days

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estrangement photography

strangers words Saleha Begum

photography M ona Var ic hon

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begum

strangers

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photography

There is an invite‌ The greatest tea party!

I w o n d e r w h i c h r o l e s h e w i l l p l a y.

Yo u r o t h e r s e l v e s , d o y o u r e m e m b e r t h e m , departed, strewn some time ago.

When we were children, playing, fighting, not knowing why we fought.

Ego was a foreign country we never knew about.

We didn’t go all Columbian, didn’t need to explore something that never existed.

Former selves, present selves, all strangers, i n o n e e l a b o r a t e p a r t y. A p a r t y o f 5 .

The misfits, the crazies, the high flyers, low lives, the wasted.

Tr a n s m i t t i n g u n w a r r a n t e d e m o t i o n s , w e c l i n g t o e a c h o t h e r, taking what is ours, diluting the others, guarding our disguise.

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begum

strangers

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rose

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estrangement photography

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reconnection

3 reconnection

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sara

folley

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weekend words Zach Roddis

inspired by the Jean Luc Godard film of the same name photography Liam Brown Passing fires and ancient church spires If it kills us we will go to the beach The tank runs out of juice Abandoning the car with nothing to lose we walk, run

zach liam

roddis brown

weekend photography

Passing liars and cheats not caught by police Off the edge of a cliff we throw away our phones Inside pockets and wallets currency of coins and notes Historic figures talk to each other they are meaningless, void, nil On this weekend away A cooked breakfast, a n a u t o b i o g r a p h y, a b e s t s e l l e r enjoyed on grounds where blood was spilled Once upon an industrial time A wasteland motel The neon light fades As we are away from the world We will get to the beach, but for now stuck on hold in service stations dirt roads country lanes with traffic cones In hostel dorms with empty guest books In quarantine We are together We are alone We will get to the beach if it kills us When we see the beach That is when our last breath is known

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brown

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magic wonderplay sarcasmogasm interview by Vineta Gailite

in c onver sation with Dr-to - be Dmitry Smirnov illustration Sian Morrell

Where time is just an illusion and everything what happens is a joke in tropical illusion.

D: Well, I guess that’s it, the world has really come to this level – in 3 years, I’ll

have the title »Dr.« in front of my name. My initially apparently far-fetched research idea – designing artificial materials with unusual wave propagation properties and building digital systems, to focus

sonic beams in crazy ways and manipulate the scattered waves to make pictures, was sold with my own mouth and its constant semi-coherent ramble to a man with a very funky name who this very Friday

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and

sian

told me that he would like to pay me his funkmoney to do a PhD with my research proposal. So, I’ll be making innovations in technology which will allow us to see inside living people using ultrasound in previously impossible detail, and explore the oceans using echolocation – for a depressed alcoholic nobody a few years ago, I don’t think I’ve done too bad. I will now focus less on jokes and try being a science-tist, a »scientist«.

The last part was a lie. I will never stop the jokes V: You should be a motivational speaker.

D: As a major step forward in my quest to become an important person who does plenty of important things and should be respected and admired by everybody, I purchased a dry-wipe

whiteboard and mounted it on my wall, in order to keep track of all my important goings-on, and more essentially to advertise my status as an important person to any visitors I may have.

No longer than five minutes later, the entire surface was consumed by a drawing of a depressed man in a top hat peeing on a hedgehog. Back to square one I guess.

V: How did your brain change when you were writing your dissertation?

D: Everything feels slightly wrong. I could not sleep the past two days because my head kept thinking of equations.

I could not go to sleep unless I came up with an equation which described sleeping.

I resentfully admit that I have recently developed

dmitry

morrell

interview illustration

the ability to step directly back into a dream at will shortly after waking up and carry on where it stopped.

It’s something that sounded like a great thing when I was a child, but now raises concern regarding my ability to feign just barely enough involvement in mainstream society to avoid knocking over the biggest of alarm bells. Let’s see, this morning I had the option to get up, face a stream of individuals who think that a Tuesday is a real thing that matters and pretend to worship myself by dragging my mind along the same endless chain of empty, vain goals and achievements as everyone else – or, on the other hand I could go back to my cocoon and allow an endless, graphic universe of grandiose symbolism to take me on an adventure bounded only by the limits of subjective reality itself.

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reconnection interview

The snooze button can come with me too.

V: This will sound voyeuristic, maybe a bit disturbing. I want to ask something, you don’t have to tell me: why did you carry on living?

This sounds horrible, I know. You were saying something about realizing how insignificant you are and becoming happy?

D: The closest I got to dying, I panicked and stopped. Some type of instinct kicked in at the last minute. Afterwards I just felt disappointed with myself for not even doing that properly. But yes, the following year I first started to realise how little everything matters.

Years later, I’m still learning every day how pointless everything people tried to train me to be in society is.

Many people don’t get it.

Some think I’m stupid,

or insane for the way I act, or that maybe I want attention. In reality I have just freed my mind from the prison I was taught to build around it.

V: What prison?

D: The mental prison you are trained to build for yourself by figures in authority, who themselves are in turn imprisoned.

The difference is that my suspicion that people don’t know what the fuck they are doing and allowing others to tell them what to do out of fear turned into a belief - more than a belief.

I realised that many of the things, I previously thought were wrong with me, are simply side-effects of my subconscious rejection to being conditioned.

Then the rejection stopped being subconscious and became conscious.

Like I said, I used to think I didn’t enjoy life, but then I realised I just didn’t enjoy the life others were telling me I should live.

Professionalism – an interesting concept.

They are a l l o w i n g others to tell them what to do.

It seems that if you are so unambitious and devoid of dreams that you actually WANT to get a job in today’s work culture where individuality is systematically flattened and replaced by business suits, kosher lies and a shameless glorification of fucking everyone and everything around you over ever so politely.

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morrell

illustration

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reconnection interview

You will have to do a very elaborate dance indeed, perhaps reminiscent in its grandiosity and lack of face value of the ones birds of paradise perform in order to secure a mate – the difference of course being that the birds get to have fun afterwards.

Let’s see, the skills assessed in an interview?

style, chemically whitened lies about your non-existent goals in life, and most importantly your ability to advertise just how keen you are to submit to whatever authority falls upon you and become what they quite literally call a human resource - just some examples h av e t o d o that spring to mind.

Yo u w i l l a ver y elabor ate dance indeed.

Convincingly wearing a set of clothing which ritualistically appeals to some archaic sense of aesthetic which you would not dream of taking out any other day of the year, the talent to spit out sound-bite

Having some skills of course also helps, but who would make it so simple?

The truth is, you can go to a class where somebody who has never met you before and does not care to do so gives you a lecture on how you – a person with more knowledge of your own life, experiences,

sian

abilities and perhaps even talents than anyone else – should package and sell yourself to a company, which of course does not involve any encouragement of bringing your own perspective or attempting an actual interpersonal connection to those on the other side.

Anybody else thinks this suggests we might have a problem?

Perhaps it’s an ego issue, you have been trained since birth to work towards building an illusionary version of yourself based on the values you’ve been raised with, and even though you now know there’s no truth behind it, you are afraid to let go of all the work you’ve done.

Or perhaps you’re afraid of being incorrect.

I used to be afraid sometimes.

But the blinding truth and the frustration with not being in touch with it overpowered my fear. It has a lot to do with ego.

V: How would you describe ego?

D: Letting go of ego is very important. Realising you’re insignificant, realising that the world owes you nothing but neither do you owe anything to the world, and most importantly not to yourself. People think they owe themselves something, they must build or create something for themselves, work towards something for themselves.

Whereas self is of course an illusion, we are all part of the same gigantic ecosystem on this planet, some people are just too narrow-minded to see that when you realise that obligation is a completely

morrell

illustration

fictional concept, you will feel much more free. You will care less about the future, or the past, and you will live in the moment. You will live life for what it is, a sequence of experiences.

Self is, of course, an illusion.

I find it very difficult to explain to people why I care so little about the superficial achievements in life they care so much about, many end up thinking I’m being miserable and depressing by not wanting material achievement. Whereas in reality I have freed myself from the illusion that this is what matters.

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reconnection interview

On a more serious note, I have recently been returning over and over to a distant childhood memory, the experience of which I wanted to share.

Me and my highly resentful mother were walking down a street somewhere in Moscow.

I must have been at the age of around 3 or 4. All I remember is pavements, a corner or a crossing of some type. There was grass too. A man was there.

He looked at us and made an arbitrary gesture to get our attention. He then said something difficult to translate into English directly while maintaining the elegance of the phrasing – »я все постиг«, loosely translated meaning »I have just comprehended everything«.

I h av e j u s t c o m p r e h e n d e d ever y t hing.

If you can’t read Russian, you see will still be able to see what I mean about elegance from the length of the original quote.

It was to the point, and something there made me interested.

The man looked at us. He leaned slightly to the side, with his hands doing a sort of conjurer’s gesture, with a twinkle in his eyes. He had those all-knowing eyes. I was too young to have been conditioned to respond with any significant level of anxiety or repulsion, I was genuinely intrigued.

My mother ushered me away, and told me »he’s drunk«.

Of course, when I grew older I realised that the man was most likely not drunk at all, he was probably under the influence of LSD or psilocybin or some other commonly available psychoactive chemical.

But that’s beside the point. Another memory from the same period of time was me being washed in a bath, by the mother in question.

As she disappeared to the kitchen to retrieve something, I stood alone in the bath, contemplating.

I asked her a question when she came back.

The exact words I used I cannot remember as I rinsed this point in my life over and over so much in reminiscing that many

sian

details have vanished, but the meaning is still clear… »How do I know if other people see things like I see them? Or are they just there, doing things, not thinking anything, put there for me to watch?«

If I may paraphrase, she told me to stop talking shit.

Now that I’m the oldest and most experienced that I have ever been so far.

I look back at those two events in a very similar light. After listening to a psychology course from some university I can’t quite recall the name of, I realised that in that bath before being able to wash my own body I have unwittingly stumbled across a concept known as »zombies« in philosophy, and this was the seed of my fascination with the concept of consciousness which has relentlessly battled its way through

every bend of life I have ever been through, and led me to come up with many hypotheses, some outlandish, some dull, some incomplete and some I still nurture.

I stood alone.

But what seems to me more fundamental than the inevitably verbose explanation of my own theories is connecting with those who have found a similar quest to fulfil – this is why, if I was to enumerate a list of things I could change if I could travel back in time, speaking to that man, particularly at that young and unpolluted age would be one of them.

As you might have expected me to say, I wish the question I asked in the

morrell

illustration

bath would have been to that man, experiencing whatever hallucinogenic reality he was on the street, not my mother. And I now wonder if I will too someday be in his place, rambling something which makes simultaneously no and all sense at a scared mother and an intrigued child in a street.

I’m beginning to find it pretty frustrating how virtually ALL the things that happen to me sound exactly like the kind of thing I’d make up. So many levels of juicy, tropical psychoanalysis are begging to be groped here. I can’t wait.

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smyth

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4 closeness

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katy carl

just an idea words Katy Gilroy

illustration Carl McBride

gilroy mcbride

just an idea meursault & marie

I used to think I was in love with you But now I know I was just in love With the idea of you And the idea That maybe you Could save me from myself And if it makes you feel Any better At all Yo u w e r e t h e b e s t i d e a I’ve ever had.

»A minute later she asked me i f I l o v e d h e r. I t o l d h e r i t didn’t mean anything but that I didn’t think so.«

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I f you know someone who is depr essed, please r esolve never t o a s k t h e m w hy.

Depr ession isn’ t a st r aight for war d response to a bad situation, depression just is, like the w e a t h e r.

Tr y t o u n d e r s t a n d t h e b l a c k n e s s , l e t h a r g y, h o p e l e s s n e s s a n d loneliness t hey ’r e going t hr ough.

Be t her e for t hem when t hey come through the other side.

I t ’s h a r d t o b e a f r i e n d t o s o m e o n e w h o ’s d e p r e s s e d , b u t i t i s o n e o f the kindest , noblest and best t hings you will ever do.

lauren

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simone

tom karl

connected illustration

connected conversation L a u r e n & To m photography Simone Karl

We have taken some time to react to Fr y’s quote from both the opinion of someone with depression and the friend’s per spective

The one with depression.

Stephen Fry is an extremely intelligent man, yet he suffers from depression and a mental illness.

During my struggle, this made me realise I wasn’t a weak person at all, and that depression can effect anyone.

I also began to realise that ‘life is a beautiful struggle’ and that it will always be tough.

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You just need to learn how to deal with the tough times, and not let them overcome you and control your thoughts.

Disconnection is the act of breaking a connection.

Whether it is something as simple as your phone being disconnected, to something as complex as disconnecting yourself from the world.

In my eyes, and from experience, disconnection is a key part when suffering depression.

Why explain to people the chaos that somersaults through your head?

They won’t understand.

How can they understand when they aren’t suffering?

Somersaults t hr ough your head My mum once said something to me that I found quite insightful and helpful when I was going through my »bad« times.

‘Everyone has a little bit of crazy in them, some people can control it, some people can’t.

It’s not that you are weak and can’t cope with it, it is just that it has become so overwhelming it starts to control you.’

Most people will have a battle with depression, or some kind of mental illness.

Are these people weak?

Of course not; I personally would class these people as the strongest people.

During my struggle, I pushed everyone I cared about out of my life, my personality changed I became a different person.

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simone

Luckily, I have a fantastic support system. An amazing family who are always there for me through thick and thin. And a wonderful set of friends.

Best friends who I have known for years, and best friends I have only known for a couple of months.

Friends that would do anything for me and I love unconditionally.

All these people are the most important people in my life, and without

Ev e n t h o u g h I pushed them out

tom karl

connected illustration

them I don’t know how I would survive.

Even though I pushed them out and locked myself away with my hopelessness, they understood, they supported me and helped me to fight this illness and become a stronger person.

The doctors claim I am ÂťbetterÂŤ now and in a few weeks, I will no longer have to swallow

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down that jagged little pill to survive the day.

I will be classed as ‘normal’ or mentally stable again.

I will be classed as » n o r m a l « again However, I fear that the illness is still within me, I have just somehow learnt to control it better.

I don’t let it control me anymore because of one person, because I couldn’t possibly see this person’s heart break again from me being selfish and trying to take my life.

No this person isn’t a boyfriend or anything, but he is my favourite person ever. He is my little brother and he is my everything.

Seeing him lightens up my day, everyday. But what I fear the most, is that when he emigrates with my Mum in a couple of months, I will not be able to have as much control as I do now.

I fear I will, again, become disconnected from the world, my friends and family.

I fear I will push them out again and begin my destructive downwards spiral to the darkness.

I must find a way to control myself, my thoughts, my feelings to

Yo u weak

aren’t

spare his heart again.

I must realise that there are others who care about me; who have feelings for me and would be hurt if I attempt something as selfish again.

Yes, I am currently experience an identity crisis. However, I am a much stronger person than I was 9 months ago when that situation happened.

I must have faith in myself. I will not let this illness defeat me. I will not go back to that dark place.

I will embrace the light that is an the end of my tunnel; at the end of my struggle, my journey through this bad experience.

One thought I will leave you with is that you must be strong.

You aren’t weak; don’t let anyone convince you that you are weak, because they are wrong.

We must not see mental illness as this taboo we cannot discuss, we must embrace it for what it is and learn to help each other.

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tom karl

connected illustration

We must share our experiences to help the people who are scared

and afraid of this cloud that is consuming them.

We must continue to

raise awareness, so we can save people, so we can show them how

amazing they actually are. That they aren’t worthless at all, and

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that they should never have to feel that way.

That we, people who have suffered, are here for them and together we will make it through.

We will unite, because even if we have none else, at least we have each other.

I know it is hard not to

become disconnecting from the world, or your loved ones, but remember there is someone out there feeling the same.

We may not be experiencing the exact same emotions but the struggle is pretty much the same.

Be strong. I know you can get through it.

I believe in you.

I hope I have helped.

The friend.

First things first, when I was about 9 or 10, as a young, developing writer, I wrote a poem about Stephen Fry. I had no idea who he was at that age, just that he happened to have a nice name that rhymed very well.

The poem began ÂťStephen Fry is a very nice guyÂŤ.

That’s all I can remember and feel the need to share for now. Fast forward about 6 years, I find myself in very different

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circumstances from the naive pre-high school child.

At 16 I experienced my first bout of depression, the first of a few that I’ll endure up to this part of my life.

I can now be located

Fo r t h e f i r s t t i m e i n 18 months I feel content . on the cusp of entering my twenty-fifth year.

For the first time in about 18 months I feel content.

I’m actually happy, very happy. I probably shouldn’t be. I feel like a hybrid of Lester Burnham & Peter Gibbons. Half of me is dazed by a quarter-life crisis that I seem to be experiencing, lovesick, the other half disregarding of rules and always on the lookout for new things.

It should also happen upon this current time

that I find myself shackled within an incredible connection with someone I care so much for.

Deeper than the Mariana Trench are the feelings I have for her. Like the Mariana Trench, I feel she will never see just how deep they are. Someone who has experienced depression more than I believe I will ever know.

I don’t know how I’d cope if I were presented with the blackness she has witnessed. I don’t think I could.

In fact, I know I couldn’t.

I’d let the blackness envelop me like a wild animal envelops it’s prey; messy, with plenty of bloodshed until the fight is over and the prey is dead.

But really, none of this matters. I’m not depressed.

tom karl

connected illustration

I don’t deserve to be writing about depression, yet alone be published, right? Perhaps.

Would you believe that the same friend that has experienced such darkness would create such crazed buckets of passion in my life?

She’s someone that I can’t imagine living without; someone that makes me happy each and every single day of my insignificant existence.

Depressed b u t s t i l l my hero.

Yet technically, she’s depressed. Depressed, but still my hero.

My best friend.

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As per normal, Fry is correct in his statement.

I have no desire to ask why she feels these thoughts or to work out what.

I just let her be, safe if in the knowledge that she knows that I will be there for her.

Throughout the darkness if she needs a torch I’ll be there and when she comes out, I’ll have a pair of sunglasses ready for her to protect her delicate eyes from the light.

It doesn’t make me proud that I’m there for her. I’m not kind or noble; I’m just human. And as every other human should comprehend, depression isn’t a bad thing. It’s just a thing.

A thing that if you let yourself experience you will understand.

Everyone will be depressed for a time in their life, it’s whether or not you recognise it.

Whether or not you let someone be there for you.

I will be there for her Whether you connect with it. As my co-writer has correctly said, the strongest people in this world are those who have connected with their true feelings. Those who have fought through.

They are the true fighters of this world and if I could be there for every single one of them, I would.

They are all heroes.

So I urge you, connect.

Go forth and connect with someone. Go and find your own hero, because one day, you may be theirs.

michal

brezinsky

photography

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closeness

thanks

to

Esteban Guerrero Rosero George Odysseos & my parents ...

... and all the other backers and contributors supporting nous magazine with their hearts and talents.

contact

hej@nous-magazine.de w w w. n o u s - m a g a z i n e . d e design, editing

art

&

Lisa Lorenz

direction,

publishing

paper

&

support

Marc the Printers 28 Edge Street M4 1HN Manchester copies

/ 450

carlota

gonzalez

miguez

photography

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All rights reserved.

Please do not reproduce in whole or in part without permission.

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NOTHING’S CHANGED I STILL LOVE YOU

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