ABOUT A GIRL A Zine
“An invisible thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, and circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.” -----Chinese Proverb
We are all the title characters in our own stories—our own lives. For all of the young wanderers out there, we hope that these words speak to you. If they don’t, that’s okay too: there are many other stories waiting to be told, including your own. Create your story, be unapologetic of who you are; go be the confluence between you and your dreams.
ABOUT YOU A Zine Written by Ayu Meutia Illustrated by Maggie Tunggono
Ayu Meutia sees the world as a piece of paper—a home of her thoughts. She can never stop writing about big and small things. In other days, you can find her shopping for temporary tattoo and old books.
Maggie Tunggono : Quirky and weird as Mr. Gubler but not as smart and brilliant as Dr. Reid.
I hear the expression a lot: “The extra miles are between your ears.” I always wonder how it translates, Does it mean the pulsing vein in my forehead? —the thump on my eardrums? I cannot remember a time when this city was cool Even at night, her heat still burns on my skin
I guess it is all about perspective; To see the glass half-filled with water instead of the one halffilled with air, When your thoughts enter the same orbit as the planet of worry, Any travel you make seems take twice as long, And all you wish is that the world would shrink Into the tiniest matter, So that you can forget about any fear, —and move on.
It is difficult to see those who bestow their support Even when you are weak; Even when you do not believe in yourself. You keep telling yourself that you do not deserve this, Then you realize that This is simply one more reason to say “Thank you.�
Beers and brothers. If this is how pressure feels— Consuming your marrow and leaving you with nothing but fear— Maybe I should run Back to the place that I know best; Back to my shy universe. To pay the dues of others’ expectations, To be the shining star of their constellation, But never my own.
I have been searching for home, For one place where I belong Inside this torn and divided city; My skin is too familiar with the taste of salt. But There has to be a reason to restore my faith, A place where I feel like I am ready for anything.
Is it showing on my face? There are times I am not proud of who I am; My good is not good enough. I can feel the flush on my cheeks, The drips of sweat on my palms, And the chain reaction: The wind knocked out of my chest; Guts, splitting—Ribcage, shattering.
But you forgot that I do not comply. I am my hair, my nerves, my tall spine, I am my sweat, I am my tears, I am my breasts, my lungs, my heart, I am my hips—my sexuality;
I am the accumulation of my interests, my stories, and my intellect. Let me make it simpler: You take me, Or you leave me, But I AM.
all the old vinyls and records and vintage movie posters you have taken off of the wall every tattoo removed every crazy haircut and highlight brought to tame every pair of sneakers covered in dust the blueprints of dreams careless spirit that fuels your hungry heart you are now secretly apologizing to dreams you are about to scroll and lock under the tightened cap of a glass bottle ready to float—be lost at the sea but let yourself know spare dreams their spaces to grow I hope you be brave there is nothing we cannot have
ABOUT A GIRL The End
ABOUT A BOY The End
I almost forget how good it feels to be surprised, To see the universe tangle and unravel before our eyes; To receive something greater than our expectations. The restoration of ourselves is within our hands— our small decisions, those fractured choices. Sometimes, it is as simple as climbing a flight of stairs to a place you have not been, To move with both courage and curiosity, Refusing to be trapped in walls of isolation, Of fear, Of self-judgement, And tonight, ...Tonight is not so bad.
I accept this city, And the fact that she has never promised me anything. Instead, she tries to create miracles, revelations. I do not need to hunger for her sweet words, I need to turn her jagged edges into a comfortable home. To accept her, I must accept myself And believe: There are still undiscovered places waiting for me to miss them, There are still corners that want to lure me in, There are war cries—calling me back home.
I only drink when I’m upset, And right now, I want to drink the roof of the sky, Washing my throat with the hanging starlight from above, And dancing alone in a trance. The busy streets are suffocating me with their emissions, And the traffic is an orchestra pounding in my head, And I am trying to fall back in love with her—this city. If she is my stepmother, Then I guess she’s still trying to figure it all out, Trying to distribute her love to all of her children. I have just come to realize that I am not her only child.
I don’t know which one is more difficult: To maintain this quiet or To share a piece of myself. The boy who used to dip his fingers into buckets of paint? He now colors for a living, And he lives without regret. But I guess, to them, wealth cannot counted in canvases and creations. I need a numerical unit to justify my status. I wish they could wear my shoes. Nevermind... My shoes are too big for them anyway.
I wish that we could hit rewind To a time when we brought real conversation the the table Instead of this silence, so uncomfortable It ripples—stings our ears. I hope I’m not the only one that notices it. In this cloud of quietness, I cannot stop asking: What went wrong?
Despite her artificiality, the city connects; She reunites me with warm memories: Of sunburns from the soccer field, Of decks of cards smuggled into class, Of the time we got weekend detention, just like The Breakfast Club, —and everyone wanted to be John Bender, Of sugary purple popsicles that taste like candy and smell like Sally, Of mosquito bites, and of when I first kissed her. I hope we have not outgrown all of that. Surely, we look better now: right? With our broad shoulders and stubble, We will not fit in into our old jackets. I guess that’s why we wear—suits? Suits, complemented by new bellies. I am just glad that we’re finally at the age To bond over beer.
The city promises that there is enough room for everyone But I have my doubts; It seems that we are forced to create rooms ourselves, Spaces to catch our breath and regain our senses. How far can we be stretched until we’ve reached the limit?
I do not remember wanting a life so utterly complex, I do not remember being told that life is but a bejeweled attraction. Maybe it’s only me who does not bother to acquaint myself with labels and titles— Is it such a sin to not even try?
I have never asked for war; I would have never declared one. At the very least, I want to put the smile back on a stranger’s face. We all know how much this city has been polluted, Some pieces of her are left—rotten, Decayed, and strayed. I wish manners had not been beaten to death in the gutter.
How do we begin to describe this city? Should we translate the street lights into verses of poetry? How do we smooth the angular—the peculiar— The hitching noises from dirty engines and rusted wheels into A peaceful lullaby That brings us home to sleep? This city is my family. She is my stepmother—an awkward one. We hold each other’s eyes in staring contests over dinner. In our defense, that’s how we are getting to know each other: Both polite and aggressive.
ABOUT YOU A Zine Written by Ayu Meutia Illustrated by Maggie Tunggono
Ayu Meutia sees the world as a piece of paper—a home of her thoughts. She can never stop writing about big and small things. In other days, you can find her shopping for temporary tattoo and old books.
Maggie Tunggono : Quirky and weird as Mr. Gubler but not as smart and brilliant as Dr. Reid.
“An invisible thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, and circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.” -----Chinese Proverb
We are all the title characters in our own stories—our own lives. For all of the young wanderers out there, we hope that these words speak to you. If they don’t, that’s okay too: there are many other stories waiting to be told, including your own. Create your story, be unapologetic of who you are; go be the confluence between you and your dreams.
ABOUT A BOY A Zine