Synchronized Chaos Magazine Mid-October Issue: Learning from History

La Fenetre de Paris announces a submission opportunity for poets. Poetry anthology Water: The Source of Life seeks submissions

Contributor Taylor Dibbert seeks reviewers for his new poetry book On the Rocks. Please email us at synchchaos@gmail.com if you’re interested.

Also, we will stop accepting submissions for November’s first issue on October 25th. You may still submit after that date, but your work will go into our second issue for the month.

Large sunlit medieval stained glass greenhouse with green plants and chairs and a piano.
Image c/o Rostislav Kralik

Now, for this month’s second issue, Learning From History.

Sayani Mukherjee muses on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire.

Kelly Moyer’s film, created together with Hunter Sauvage and starring Robert P. Moyer and Annie, draws on ancient myth to understand the United States’ modern political situation. Abigail George analyzes the strengths and weaknesses of certain leadership styles illustrated by Donald Trump and several African leaders. Patricia Doyne speaks to the hubris of American political leadership. Andrew Brindle and Christina Chin’s tan-rengas explore society’s injustices and contradictions.

Old library warmed by incandescent lamplight with multiple floors of books.
Image c/o Petr Kratochvil

Ivan Pozzoni’s poetry declares his speaker’s independence of mind as an artist and offers critiques of government funds’ being taken from ordinary taxpayers to bail out large banks. Bill Tope’s short story celebrates the power of understanding and empathy for people at all social levels. Poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou interviews poet Til Kumari Sharma about the importance of gender equality, humanity and empathy, and living with solid morals. Til Kumari Sharma reviews Brenda Mohammed’s poetry collection Break the Silence, about ending drug addiction, domestic violence, and human trafficking. Nordona Norqulova describes strategies world governments use to combat terrorism. Til Kumari Sharma also expresses her hope for a world where women, children, and everyone is treated with respect.

Patrick Sweeney’s one-line senryus decenter the author as head of the universe. Mark Young contributes a fresh set of altered geographies. Baskin Cooper describes encounters slightly mysterious and askance.

Brian Barbeito reflects on the wonder and spiritual curiosity he finds in natural landscapes. Su Yun’s collection of poetry from Chinese elementary school students reflects care for and admiration of the natural world and also a sense of whimsy and curiosity. Stephen Jarrell Williams’ short poems depict an escape from overcrowded cities back into nature. Vaxabdjonova Zarnigor discusses the chemical composition of chia seeds and their nutritional value. Nidia Garcia celebrates the natural environment and urges people to plant trees. Madina Abdisalomova reminds us that environmental care and stewardship is everyone’s responsibility.

Primeval jungle painting with dragonfly, sun and clouds, small trees and large green ferns.
Image c/o Martina Stokow

Mahbub Alam extols the beauty of morning and nature in his Bangladeshi home. Jonathan Butcher’s poetry explores the different rooms in which we make our lives and the stories they could tell about us. J.T. Whitehead shows how external cleaning can parallel interior personal development. Srijani Dutta discusses her personal spiritual journey in prayer to the divine of at least a few faiths.

Alexandros Stamatoulakis announces his new novel The Lonely Warrior: In the Wings of the Condor, about a man discovering himself in the midst of a tumultuous modern environment. Chris Butler’s wry poetry explores long-lasting, but hopefully not implacable, truisms of the human condition. Ana Glendza speaks to the fear and insecurities that come with being human. Kavi Nielsen speaks to the experience of loneliness and rejection.

Noah Berlatsky satirizes faux-human tech support and our efforts to understand our whole world through technology. Timothee Bordenave outlines innovative ways to improve electricity transmission as Abdurofiyeva Taxmina Avazovna discusses treatments for cataracts.

Old fashioned sepia toned photograph of a laboratory. Beakers, bottles of substances, and open books.
Image c/o Petr Kratochvil

Zarifaxon O’rinboyeva’s short story presents a woman overcoming poverty and grief to become a physician. Doug Hawley reflects on the ups and downs of summer jobs. Turdiyeva Guloyim’s poetic essay shares a complex emotional tapestry of childhood village memories. Rahmataliyeva Aidakhon highlights the importance of grasping folktales to understanding Uzbek heritage and culture. Madina Azamjon highlights the literary importance of Hamid Olimjon’s writing and how he drew on Uzbek folk culture for inspiration. Gulsanam Qurbonova extols the linguistic and cultural education she has received at her university. Ermatova Dilorom Bakhodirjonova explains the intertwined nature of Uzbek language and culture and the need to preserve both.

Mukhammadjonova Ugiloy celebrates her school and the sports and student leadership education she received there. Choriyeva Oynur outlines benefits of integrating technology into education. Abdirashidova Ozoda outlines the importance of encouraging and fostering creativity for preschool students. Nilufar Mo’ydinova discusses ways to encourage second language acquisition at an early age.

Anila Bukhari’s poetry celebrates the creative spirit surviving amid poverty and oppression. Taro Hokkyo’s prose poem details his protagonist’s escape from emotional and spiritual darkness to rise to the heights of creativity. Alan Catlin’s barman odyssey explores the roots of creative inspiration.

Emran Emon speaks to the recent Nobel Prize award for world literature and the value of writing. Abdusalimova Zukhraxon outlines strategies for teaching the Uzbek language to foreign students. Abdusaidova Jasmina Quvondiqovna shares some of her art and expresses her pride in her native Uzbekistan. Rustamboy Jumanazarova suggests ways to help young children learn to tell time. Qurbonova Madinaxon discusses the importance of games and play in children’s education. Hayotkhon Shermatova outlines issues with Uzbekistan’s educational system and how to address them. Azamova Kumushoy illustrates the importance of teaching language students how to analyze literary texts.

Classical statue of a woman with curly hair, blue waves, white chunks of veined marble for a crown, and sailing ships in the distance.
Image c/o Kai Stachowiak

Duane Vorhees revels in erotic sensuality and the learnedness of ancient history. Perwaiz Shaharyar’s poem, translated to English and Italian by Maria Miraglia, celebrates the beauty of the positive aspects of many cultures’ concept of the feminine.

Ismoilova Gulmira celebrates the strength, thoughtfulness, creativity and resilience of Uzbek girls and young women. Abduqahhorova Gulhayo’s poem takes joy in the grace and kindness of young Uzbek girls. Svetlana Rostova finds beauty in everything, even ugliness, loss, and death.

Graciela Noemi Villaverde praises the creative insight of her dance teacher. Saparov Akbar outlines his personal quests and passions and his desire to educate himself and elevate his life. Mesfakus Salahin’s poetry celebrates the artistic inspiration that can come from romantic love.

J.J. Campbell details his middle-aged, disillusioned quest for love or maybe just a little break from reality. Donia Sahib speaks to spiritual and earthly love. Teresa Nocetti’s poem urges a loved one to invite her into their life. Eva Petropoulou Lianou shares a tale of lovers in search for one another.

Mural of a person's hand from behind bars in a brick wall chained to a dove and a red flower.
Image c/o Guy Percival

Graciela Irene Rossetti’s poetry revels in tender gentleness. Mirta Liliana Ramirez expresses the pain of being shamed for who she is. Rezauddin Stalin speaks to partings and farewells. Umida Hamroyeva expresses her love and longing for a departed person.

Ahmed Miqdad speaks of the forgotten sufferings of ordinary people in Gaza. Fiza Amir’s poetry evokes the many personal losses and griefs of wartime. Jacques Fleury reviews Joy Behar’s play My First Ex-Husband, which explores marital and relationship issues in a way that is relatable for many people, married or single.

Mykyta Ryzhykh presents a protagonist who explores alternatives and then revels in his ordinary humanity. H. Mar. shares the joy of day-to-day human companionship.

We hope this issue provides artistic, emotional, and intellectual companionship to you as you peruse the various contributions.

Poetry from Srijani Dutta

Pink, purple, and blue watercolor of a South Asian inspired god with many open eyes.

The Eternal Eyes of Lord

2022

The Essence of Prayer

Part I

What should I do

           (Now)

Lock it up in me

Or scatter it around the meadow?

A crow can touch it-

The wheels can break it-

The sun can burn it-

Ughgh!

Sometimes, it is foam like-

Fire-

Water-

Sand-

What is it?

It is the spirit. It is the same spirit that withdraws the spirit of “What if.”

It is the same spirit that embraces the spirit of uncertainty.

It is the same spirit that dances with the tunes of by-gone days.

Same, same, same- Everywhere

Like some god-sent sailors

Finding nothing except

Their fragmented, repented souls

Rippling images on mirror-

Water as mirror.

Like the atheists overlooking

The signs given to them by Jesus, the Lord

And celebrating life

With no peaceful prayer;

It fails to follow  the patterns

Of light projected onto

The ship, water

From the lighthouse-

Lighthouse as God’s hands.

Who is it?

It is the humans,

The souls-

Who gather rage, hatred, and lie

Like a heap of garbage

Turning

(Unconsciously)

Into the bad- mouth, foul- scented beings.

It is the humans, the same humans-

Who look at the time

The same cruel time-

The same forgiving time-

The same loving time-

Holding its soul

Within its palms

With youth and

With mercy-

Some gibberish words come out from

Mumbling lips, crooked bodies,

Beating heart-

Those same words create the echo

Of some meanings-

Thus, a prayer is born.

All the lost souls

Like soldiers, sailors, farmers

Look at the sky

Only to listen to those same sound-

Sound of their echoing souls

Sound of prayer

And they find

Themselves in the land

Of songs.

Songs of destinies-

Songs of dawns-

Songs of divinities-

The same song that is written as the lines of fate

Is becoming the prayer-song

For the scribblers

Named as unseen forces-

The Goddesses and the Gods.

08.01.2025 

Part II

Once, I crossed a lake-

Beside it, I saw a

Chain of   grotesque,      Gloomy Faces;

Multitudes of pain Run through      

Swollen Limbs,

I shed off tears

And it was vanished into oblivion.

Part III

O my Muhammad, O my Lord Jesus, 

Fill my heart with spiritual Thirst.

O my Virgin Mary, O my Grace,

Shower thy Blessings and Revive these Damned cells.

2019

Fear

Some words in my throat

That I want to swallow

Want to vomit

Keep stagnant

I do not know

The reason.

My current state is dwindling like waves

Waves of sea

Sea of uncertainty and fear

Navigating life between dilemma and faith.

Sometimes,

In life

You feel you have to be saved by Jesus

And

In these cases,

You can only be saved by God, the Almighty.

You know you fear a lot;

You know you cannot handle pressure

As it fractures your bones

And makes your soft soul bruised;

Bloody, wounded

You have become

It is just fear- 

Alas! Everyone wants to be saved.

To Sylvia Plath: A prose poem 

Today, I owe you a great treat,

It is not a sonnet, 

Not a parody evoking laughter,

Not an epic 

Demonstrating your journey from body to spirit,

Or spirit to body,

Not an ode to unveil your woes.

It is a chamber of secrets, a drawer of emotions;

People rush to the pornographic clips to derive pleasure,

I rush towards you,

 And find a piece of solace

In you.

The name that moves its wings around my neck

Coming back from dead past,

Is none other than Plath.

Today, I owe you something

To your butchered soul,

To your ruined peace,

I will offer you green ashes, red debris

Made out of women bodies

Those bodies faced electrocution, marital rape, sharp attacks, agonized anguish,

Bagful of dirt under their dripping Eyes, quarrel for Vegetables

And utensils

And unkind dowry, child birth, menopause, loneliness and death;

You wrote for them, for me, 

And for those unnamed Plath(s),

Caged in their rooms

kept hidden under their door-carpets, sealed in the bell jars,

Jars of bad mouth

And sold to the markets.

Your words carry voices

A sound of determinism as well as of instability

 Paradoxical antithesis, surreal aroma

Of your poem 

Painted my race’s trauma,

You never held pen between your fingers,

The pen became the weapon,

And continued your writing therapy,

 It reminds me of 

Lowell and Anne Sexton.

Today, I owe you a gift, a magical pot

That will remove the blemish, blemish between you and

Ted’s Bond,

The bond between Hughes and Hawks,

All I remember is

The way you suffered

The way you ended the life.

I am haunted by the passing sadness,

From staring at the starry sky

To the empty playgrounds-

From the lonely crow

To all the insects slightly emitting out 

A mellow sound,

I notice all, 

I kept a brush in my pocket ,

The words that I chew are the Words that 

I owe you, my Plath.

I remember

How vulnerable your Soul was

At the time of separation,

How brutal that man was!

How you craved for love 

And feared for losing your cherry lips and hairs 

And beauteous colours and gloss.

Smokes curling up from the oven 

While cooking up a bowl 

Of noodles,

I think of your burning head,

I am sitting on my room along with your poems

To know your body and soul.

2019

Poetry and art from Abdusaidova Jasmina Quvondiqovna

Young Central Asian woman with dark hair in a ponytail and a white tee shirt against a wood background.
Drawing of a young girl with short hair and a neutral expression.

My country

You are my wealth, my dearest and unique,
And always because of you my speech is art.
Don’t let your peace be broken and bleak,
I will not let your candle in my heart depart.

Your presence means that my existence is true,
I have no happiness and joy apart from you
My nation, in my heart, pride I knew,   
For you are the light that illuminates my way anew.

Abdusaidova Jasmina Quvondiqovna
A student of class 8-“D” at School No. 22, Gallaorol district, Jizzakh region.
Born on July 20, 2011.
I am interested in artistic skills such as drawing and writing poetry.

Essay from Saparov Akbar

Young Central Asian teen dressed up in a black suit with a white collared shirt and black tie.

Elevation is more than just a word. It embodies the essence of growth, progress, and the continuous journey toward excellence. Whether in personal life, technology, art, or society, the desire to rise above, to reach new heights, is a defining feature of human experience. This article explores the many dimensions of elevation, illustrating how striving for higher standards shapes individuals and the world around them.

Personal Elevation

At its core, elevation begins within the individual. Personal growth is the foundation of every achievement. It involves learning from experiences, overcoming challenges, and continually refining one’s skills and mindset. Discipline, persistence, and a commitment to self-improvement are key drivers of this ascent.

Consider the lives of pioneers, inventors, and visionaries. They demonstrate that personal elevation is rarely instantaneous; it is the result of consistent effort and resilience. By embracing failure as a stepping stone rather than a setback, individuals unlock their potential and elevate themselves beyond limitations.

Technological Elevation

Elevation is not limited to personal development; it extends into the realm of innovation. Technology exemplifies humanity’s desire to transcend boundaries. From supercars that combine speed with engineering precision to airplanes that shrink the vastness of the world, technology lifts human capability to unprecedented levels.

Artificial intelligence, renewable energy, and space exploration are prime examples of how human ingenuity transforms obstacles into opportunities. Elevation in technology reflects a broader principle: the pursuit of perfection and the drive to enhance life through invention.

Cultural and Artistic Elevation

Art and culture provide another dimension of elevation. Music, literature, painting, and architecture inspire and challenge the mind, fostering creativity and introspection. They encourage us to see the world from new perspectives and appreciate beauty in complexity.

Through engagement with art, individuals elevate their consciousness. The refinement of taste and critical thinking enriches the human experience, demonstrating that elevation is not only about material achievement but also about the depth of understanding and emotional resonance.

Societal Elevation

Communities and societies also experience elevation. Education, scientific discovery, and cooperative efforts enable societies to progress and innovate. Cultural exchange and collaboration foster collective growth, raising standards and unlocking new possibilities.

Societal elevation emphasizes that individual advancement and community progress are interconnected. A society that values knowledge, innovation, and compassion cultivates an environment where its members can rise together, achieving heights that would be impossible alone.

Challenges on the Path to Elevation

The journey toward elevation is rarely smooth. Obstacles, setbacks, and uncertainties test determination and resilience. Fear of failure, self-doubt, and external pressures can hinder progress. However, these challenges also serve as catalysts for growth.

Overcoming adversity strengthens character and clarifies purpose. True elevation comes not from avoiding difficulties but from confronting them and continuing upward with resolve and vision.

Conclusion

Elevation represents the human pursuit of excellence, growth, and transformation. It spans personal development, technological innovation, artistic expression, and societal progress. It challenges us to rise, refine, and evolve.

By embracing elevation, we commit to a journey without a final destination—one where each step upward reveals new horizons and possibilities. The pursuit of elevation inspires, motivates, and reminds us that there is always a higher plane to reach, a higher self to become, and a higher world to create.

Author: My name is Saparov Akbar, and I was born on February 24, 2005, in Jizzakh district, Jizzakh region, Uzbekistan.

After finishing school, I chose to continue my path at Samarkand’s Economic and Service University (SamISI), where I am now a second-year student majoring in Tourism and Hospitality. Along the way, I’ve gained valuable volunteering experience at the airport, which gave me a chance to see the real world of service, communication, and leadership.

I always try to push myself beyond one field. I’ve earned certificates in Photoshop, After Effects, and Premiere Pro, and I also have achievements in sports, having taken part in regional and republic competitions.

But my real passions run deeper. I am in love with music — every genre has a place in my heart, but melancholic hip-hop, rock, and rage are where I feel the strongest connection. I’m also fascinated by technology, whether it’s computers, laptops, or smartphones, I love exploring their models and characteristics. Languages are another side of me: besides my native Uzbek, I am fluent in English and Russian, and I’m working toward learning Spanish, Arabic, Chinese, and other popular languages.

Another passion of mine is cars — I even lead a channel dedicated to them, because for me, the automotive world is more than just machines, it’s pure inspiration.

Still, beyond all of this, my biggest dream is to find myself — in religion, in humanity, in life — and to be worthy of being called a real human being. More than anything, I want to make my parents proud. And through it all, the person who inspires me the most is my mother — her love, trust, and care are the light that guides me every single day.

Essay from Timothee Bordenave

Timothee Bordenave – Paris, France.

India – Haryana State University – Dr. Dalip Khetarpal

THE ELECTRICITY FAIRY

Dear friends, let’s begin by presenting these ideas, which may seem to have come to you relatively randomly, because they reflect what I’ve published online over the months…

The first concepts I’m going to develop relate to electricity, and I’ll list them here one after the other.

First of all, a note about electrical insulation in the transmission of electricity from one point to another. Yes, because while this energy can very easily be transported by cable, an electric wire, a metal wire that carries the precious electricity through its conductive properties, we have never yet, for technical reasons related to the difficulty of insulating the current, succeeded in distributing it otherwise than by using an overhead network of suspended electrical wires.

However, this is very expensive to maintain, it’s dangerous and fragile, and it also costs a lot in terms of energy loss because air is not a good insulator. Therefore, this system, which is still poor and unsightly for the natural environment of the facilities, is ultimately only a last resort, which satisfies no one.

My proposal is to use ceramic insulation to design tubes of what is called “technical ceramic” in chemistry, surrounded, for example, by rubber, an elastic material that is very resistant to temperature variations, to bury electrical cables rather than suspending them.

“Technical ceramic electrical insulation” is becoming increasingly cheaper to produce, thanks to advances in our chemistry. It is a material that is already well known today for other uses.

The rubber-like material surrounding the tube will be easy for experts to define, produce, and install, and this solution for burying wired cables, long sought after by everyone in the sector, would thus be within our reach.

I had this idea as a child, observing the insulating properties of ceramic and reflecting that its production costs would soon, and increasingly, decrease. Today, burying electrical installations thus insulated would undoubtedly cost much less than maintaining our suspended cables.

And the electricity fairy certainly still has much to offer us; we still have so much to discover! One of my development ideas, which I will present to you now, relates to this again: the photovoltaic-powered lamp.

Wouldn’t it be possible for us to design a lamp that, connected to a rechargeable battery and a photovoltaic cell capable of transforming its light into electricity, would be virtually perpetual?

You probably understand well that with a dedicated photovoltaic cell, which would serve as its main power supply in a short circuit, such a lamp would provide light almost in perpetuity.

And the answer to the question of whether it would be possible with our current technology to design and then manufacture such a tool is simply: yes!

It would even be very easy for us, apparently, since most modern photovoltaic cells react to the electric light emitted by a light bulb.

The battery that would serve as the lamp’s switch and for the eventual replacement of the cell could be recharged through the same circuit, making the device particularly durable.

It’s a brilliant idea, isn’t it? I urge my contemporaries to implement it.

One last remark concerning electricity, which I can make here, would be to consider increasing the radiation of light bulbs by covering them with mirrors.

This is what we do for flashlights and headlights.

I therefore urge you to consider that it would be very easy to design “nightlights” that, by simply covering them with one or more light-emitting diodes, would provide satisfactory supplemental lighting equal to or better than that of a current, bare light bulb, for example, with a single diode.

One or two diodes, powered by small batteries, for example, or by the mains, would then undoubtedly demonstrate great longevity and cost their users almost nothing in terms of energy consumption or maintenance.

This idea, which I myself have already seen developed at the artisanal level, would make it possible to provide electric lighting to populations that are either disadvantaged or deprived of access to distribution networks.

It would undoubtedly also prove very practical for anyone who needs outdoor lighting, and I’m thinking here in particular of the military, who would see the advantages of a mirror-clad LED lamp in terms of portability and ease of powering or repair.

Mirror-clad light sources have been used since ancient times. It was already mentioned at the legendary lighthouse of Alexandria.

As for LED bulbs, they are booming today, becoming increasingly cheaper and more efficient!

(…)

A text by Timothee Bordenave in Paris, France.

Autumn 2025. For Dr. Khetarpal at the Afflatus Creations Peer Review, in India.

Poetry from Kavi Nielsen

this is for all of you
I mistook your hazy smiles for friendship.


how was I supposed to know you just wanted to run? I thought you were a mind-reader,
a savior,
a person who understood the deadly-slow inside-out gnawing
my heart’s being subjected to-


but now I realize
you’re just a breath, a moment, a memory I’ll touch on when I’m lonely
you were there once, twice, a flash, a fleeting breath, a whisper in the dark


but now you’re gone like the sun at night and I should’ve known
we’re all alone again

Short stories from Svetlana Rostova (one of several)

Ecstasy

“The reality of being human is to hope against hope. The believing that there is a meaning to life when we have every reason to believe that we are made of dirt and buried as ash, believing that things will turn out okay when we live in a world with no guarantees and a thousand unhappy endings, believing in humanity even after you’ve watched your kind start wars and commit murders, believing in kindness even after you’ve seen evil.”

  • There is something violently beautiful about pain, and the birth of the stars is no exception. Choking on ash, collapsing and burning, something so tragic can become beautiful, just in a matter of seconds. And then they die, and it all is forgotten.
  • This, of course, is far besides the point, but it lives in my mind most days. I, too, am a container for horror, and making it look effortless. I, too, know how to be born in an awful world, and not scream.
  • I have become a slave to ecstacy, not the drug, but the belief that everything will be okay. A cruel hope, if you will. I suppose I have a tendency to turn everything in my life tragic or manic, but eighteen years a slave will do that to a person. It is cruel, I think, to an extent, to be born so dependent on happiness. It is cruel that we are able to manufacture it, if we just close our eyes.
  • And so, we let it continue.
  • Here are the rules of living in a suburbia: don’t open your eyes, don’t shake your head, and whatever you do, don’t think. Of course, nothing bad will happen if you do think, but hope is a dangerous thing to have, and an even more dangerous thing to lose. And besides, the act of pretending is better if you don’t think: less painful.
  • I have heard when stars are born, a whole universe collapses, a universe made of ash and clouds of dust. I reach out to touch it, the fear, the ache, but I cannot reach it. I cannot feel it. I cannot feel anything at all.
  • My mother used to tell me that there is a place, a place between life and death, where all you see is a blinding light, so fierce it overwhelms you. I chose not to tell her I’d felt this way for years.
  • Evil doesn’t die, it is reborn and reborn like a star.
  • I used to think that murder was savage. I thought that when you were dragged off, you would leave trails of rose petals like blood behind you, crimson staining the cream-fleshed snow. But that is not what murder is like, not at all. You are unpeeled, slowly, like the leaves of a hibiscus flower, and left to take your last shallow breaths, your heart beating within your ribs, your life forgotten already.
  • You are like a lamb, made for the slaughter.
  • But of course, all beautiful things are wicked, dead or alive.

Girl: As a Ship in a Bottle

¨Please¨, I would repeat, over and over again, looking to the stars in the sky.  ¨Let me be free.¨ After the shipwreck, nobody had any words for me other than I’m Sorry. The word was etched into the table I ate at, and sketched into the books I would read. I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry. I had no eyes, no ears, no mouth, I had taken them all off so I could no longer notice. The strangers had begun mailing them, sending the I’m Sorry’s small and neatly packed, and when all the boxes and drawers overflowed, I began to keep them in a jar.

At first the idea had seemed faultless. Stacking them up into neat diamond shapes, the well wishes became smaller and smaller, until I seldom felt them crawling up the murky depths of my throat. Seldom felt them like a sickness. It became like a twisted little game, or a song, shoving the pillow over my head, ignoring the chorus of words coming from my bedside cabinet. But still, I could walk, I could run, I could sing, and so I did- sing until the sky faded away, and my boyfriend was gone, and I was all alone, left- to shove a pillowcase over my head to drown out the noise.

The medium of my memories never ceased to recreate itself, taking the form of a little creature or a gaunt damsel tiptoeing across acres/fields. Death, in its ominous omniscience never shows it’s true form, as not to lose it’s mysery. No, rather it stomps and roars in it’s anger, and the I’m Sorry’s just kept coming. When the jar too was filled, I took out a bottle, and set it on the table, waiting. I pulled myself under the covers. It was too dark. And when the next letter came, I grabbed it, meaning to toss it into the sea.

I Love You, I’m Sorry.

Underneath the easel by the table, I glanced at the food on a nearby plate. It’s been tagged-, well wishes, Liz- and I was underneath the easel. Had they painted me on a cross, the me that they wanted to see? I was a legend.

I was a hoax.

I glanced down at the bottle, the one full of secrets and false promises. The one that had kept me within it. Victim, survivor, some sort of chivalrous martyr. And as I set it- to drift, not to sink- I whispered something.

¨Let me out of the bottle.¨

The Dream

“If you were loved in a dream, does it count?  That love- does it count?”

  • reference, The God of Small Things

What is love?

An addiction, perhaps? It’s an addicting feeling, and you just can’t be fully happy once you find out that it exists.

  • To a person who isn’t loved, attention is the closest thing you will ever feel. You will save it, scrap it. You will treasure it. You will earn it. You will do anything for it.
  • To a person who isn’t loved, violence is stronger than any kiss.
  • I have this friend.

I built her out of memories.

I miss her some nights- she now lives in the sky.

  • Does grief count as love? Perhaps hatred of what you never had is proof of something you could have had.
  • Perhaps that’s why the abused search for abuse and murder.
  • Sickness leads to pity, and pity can feel like love. Pity can lead to abuse. Abuse can also feel like love. So maybe I want to be sick.
  • That’s the thing, right? Have you ever wanted something so badly your knees buckled, and your lips trembled, and you felt like you could die? Didn’t you feel alive? Wouldn’t you do anything to feel that want?

Does that sound crazy? Does it? You feel like a wolf feeding off scraps of what other people own.

Mentally ill, they call you. Not alone or desperately lonely. Not made of other people’s actions. Somehow you have become what they have done. Somehow it has become on you.

Well as long as it is your fault, you have to point this out: it wasn’t as if it wasn’t warranted. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t spent thousands of nights alone in your own mind, so who could blame you for becoming what you did?

And that’s the problem, right? When you’re alone in your head? So you start to make some friends.