The Current (And Fragile) Emotional State of a 20 Something- Volume 2

THECURRENT (ANDFRAGILE) EMOTIONAL STATEOFA20 SOMETHING*

*SERIOUSLY, IT’S WEIRD.

WELCOME TO THE MOST CONFUSING DECADE OF YOUR LIFE!

Easy does it!

vol.2

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR IN CHIEF I WASN’T PREPARED FOR HOW HARD MY TWENTIES WERE GOING TO BE. I HOPE THAT THIS ZINE MAKES YOU FEEL LESS ALONE IN THIS EXISTENTIAL PERIOD OF YOUR LIFE. I KNOW IT HAS FOR ME. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE EXTREMELY TALENTED CREATIVES WHO SUBMITTED PIECES- I AM TRULY GRATEFUL FOR YOUR IDEAS AND WORDS.

Contents It Is Only Spring, Tom Caton- page 4 Nostalgia/ I ache to be whole again, Avilasha- page 5 Angel of Death, Maria Duran- page 8 When Punishing Me, Maria Duran- page 9 A Stitch in Time, Maria Duran- page 10 a contemplation, Katherine Johnson- page 11 Always the Spangled Bridsemaid, Sophie Thompson- page 12 Failing/ After Grades, Julian H- page 13 Sometimes You’re Twenty One, Saskia Muller- page 14 Untitled, Florence Howarth- page 18 Self Love Letter, Isabella Hawkins, page 19 Not Human: Something Else, Mari Lee Rose, page 21

0 2 3

2 21 IT IS ONLY SPRING An adult for two whole years A teenager with small fears.

But now the limbo stage is done And you are a year off twenty-one.

Three years flash furiously, Friends return from university And you have been slumming it In the public house- your sandpit.

Trudge on twelve months more You are all twenty-four But they are settling down And you have barely left the ground.

Christ, you’re a virgin?

On the dole, still purging Those perfect childhood days With a sense of dismay.

A quarter century has gone You still do not belong To anyone or anything But remember- it is only spring.

A whole blissful season Of summer, is reason To take a second look At what is inside your book.

So, pick up the spade For the next decade And get down and dirty You will bloody soon be thirty.

Your life does not have a return date. No exchanges.

Thomas Caton, 42 He/Him Cumbria, England @caton_tom on Instagram

Nostalgia/ I ache to be whole again.

I.

Today I woke up and found the lingering stains of your shadow by my bed, a penchant for saudade dreams that awaken my wretched longing for to entangle my soul into yours, this bone deep desire to curl up into your warmth.

The deafening silence echoes the ghost of your words, a cold kiss against my forehead.

The knife twists in my chest for I can still feel the warmth of it.

I slaughter my own body, break my own mind and melt into the shadows just so the taste of your lips on mine fades away as chaste kisses from strangers in alleyways aim to fill the ache, I hate what’s in my mind, the lost lover in me that still peels two oranges instead of one, just in case.

II.

The half filled bowl of food sits on the top shelf of my fridge with a post it note on top, the salt of my tears finding their homage in the paper, battered from the amount of times I have brushed my fingers over it.

A shiver slides down my spine at the image my brain paints— the precarious realisation that perhaps you would be smiling as you penned down the words of care.

Would you believe me if I told you, How I slither as an unknown in my own body, How I ache to be whole again?

III. Footsteps halt on the sacred concrete, my being is held up by something urgent in these decayed depths, of unnamed flowers that reek of poison and strangers growing within the hollow crevices that spell out your name. In another universe, perhaps the rain beating streets would be lit with the glow of your alluring presence as I stood before you, draped in shadows, wrapped in thorns and barbed wire, soaked to my very bones, warmed by your gentle touch.

IV.

I still

wait

for the ghost of you near the lightened riverbanks, how the nipping winds would remind me of how those darkened strands would stick to your forehead, stardust lining your throat as I brushed my mouth against your forlorn skin, This beating organ in its craze to explode, you held me close, whispered those wretched words against my lips, I couldn’t recall my walk back home but I remember down to every detail how the world seemed to slip from underneath my feet, how I walked barefoot towards the home of the angels in hopes that I could burn my knees raw and scream my lungs out, Only for the presence of you to never turn into an absence.

V.

The letters stacked on top of the dinner table, I eat your fragmented love for breakfast and sip on your last wishes, my love crazed bones licking the lingering sweetness of your affection, the smell of your cologne I held in even though it warned to fade away.

I could watch my own being melt into wishes, the mirror laughing as my reflection burned away into a desperate aching to be loved, I could have watched the last star fall from the sky, the black expanse of this sheet of earth coming down over me, and I wouldn’t mind, As long as I could walk back home and talk to you about it, Because beauty only held meaning when you had someone to share it with.

Avilasha, 19 she/her @aviiwrites__ on Instagram

Angel of Death To start with, I slit the angel of death's own throat.

All at once a thousand flies & fireflies & dragonflies & bees went out from the remains, & drank greedily from his blood; from the wondermatter of his body bloomed magnolia trees of great height & width the wide cup of their petals, clustered together like hands praying deliverance.

Their small yellow hearts shone with angelic eyes, gleaming: its shadow bore the smell of rum & and musk. & up its trunk great parasitic orchids, their bobbing heads heavy with remorse for the crime of existing.

It grows there still, the angel's magnolia.

On the curve of that ugly street, at the heart of that ugly homeplace - near enough to the railway that the thunder of the engines shakes the leaves, makes them sing beautifully

Maria Duran, 26 she/her Lisbon, Portugal @m.mar.duran on Instagram

When punishing me, Remember the consequences of my actions rarely hurt others more than myself, and you cannot prove this is a lie.

Please take into consideration the fact that I am very small, which gave me all manner of neurosis - also my hair is nun-veil long, my mouth a knotty stitch, my mind stumbles so often. I am very capable of doing the verb to do, in iterations which are not excuses, but shrug their shoulders, tense with confusion.

I am very capable of doing better Very able to string actions to sign deeds to gesture and mean it Remember I give to solidarity my bad bones and good faith and cheap money occasionally Be tender towards me: I could be doing much more, Or at least respect indulgence better, I could be choosing joy at least ..................................three more times a day, But then again so could you.

Maria Duran, 26 she/her Lisbon, Portugal @m.mar.duran on Instagram

A Stitch in Time There is a place in history where you ripped Its fine seams apart, A hole the size of every bad habit, and never did it ever get sewn.

The work to seal it is large and terrible more so for how much faster and faster is the course of time, even your own stretch of meager day and meager nights.

Of course at heart you are humbled by your own knowledge of the self - and disdainful, and full of awe.

But that is of no use in particular, to particulars or collectives, if you do not wash the dishes, and the grievances, and the silent kitchens of your soul.

The hole is the size of half your life, exactly the perfect amount of space and time for your hands to take up the mending task.

Maria Duran, 26 she/her Lisbon, Portugal @m.mar.duran on Instagram

a contemplation Katherine Johnson, 23 she/her Citrus County, FL 1.Animals don’t feel ongoing stress. A predator chases them, they escape, and they carry on. They build nests and gather food for the winter, but do they think about mortality, impending doom, or what to make of their life? No. It’s not their nature. God, what is my nature?

2. We made pine needle bracelets on the playground when we were little.

Sophie braided the three brown strands, orange in the light, and Sophia tied the bracelet onto my wrist. It looked so beautiful. I held out my arm to admire it. It looked like belonging.

3.Will I ever know the wretchedness of my own heart? I hope not. I hope only God knows. I examine myself, pick out my flaws, and determine how I appear to others all at the same time. Meanwhile, the birds and crickets don’t care if their singing is beautiful or if they’re good. And it is. And they are. And the sun retires from this side of the earth, leaving a glow of gold and blush.

4. To be brave for a long time, you need a community being brave with you. In fact, to live, we need to be brave; we need community. But where to find it?

Where to find it?

5. Twelve men were students before they were missionaries. They traveled together, then built communities around the world. They were flawed students. Flawed like me. They were often confused. What empowered them?

What might empower me? I long for it, that clarity.

6. Will it be painful, becoming who I have to be? Most likely. Will it be worth it?

7. Must I go out and fulfill my hidden potential? Is it not enough to just sit here and stare at the stars? They’re so beautiful. I wonder if they think they shine alone?

ALWAYS THE SPANGLED BRIDESMAID When we started going back in school, you gave me a rhinestone hairband from Claire’s. Other times you gave me CDs or 10p mix-ups or a hoody marked with Lynx Africa. Other tat besides. But the hairband crowned those childish years.

When I finished my doctorate, you upgraded me to cubic zirconia. A bracelet to celebrate surviving studies at opposite poles of the land. You said you’d give me something more one day. Something even better. So I took it and didn’t let on that the halo of cut-price solitaires wreathed the wrong part of me.

I wore it the rest of my porcelain decade, but it never held the promise that I wanted. Its silver soon tarnished. You said you needed longer, longer than sixteen foil-backed years. I realised you’d peaked at the hairband and a choker of lovebites ‘round the back of the bike sheds. The waste of all that time bedazzled my cheekbones.

Sure. Rhinestones shine as bright as diamonds. But they glow hollow. They crumble under the boot of expectations falling short. And I won’t be strung along no more like your Gran’s old pearls.

Sophie Thompson, 28 she/her UK @sophietwrites on Instagram

Failing / After Grades Soon I graduate with A in Constructivism (with a specialisation in cabinets for curiosities, folding files, five year plans, expressions), B in Entactogenics: Practice and Theory, and D in Communication, again on the dirty living room carpet.

The light – blind-broken, unemployed – stripes my arm into parts.

There’s that warmth – and its futility. ‘The records’, something says, ‘are all that is left.’

So play it again. ’Go walking in circles…’

Does it matter if the results are the same?

I’m tired, examiner.

Mark me down.

Julian H, he/him United Kingdom @t.julian.h on Instagram

Sometimes You’re Twenty One Sometimes you’re twenty-one and standing in the kitchen of your grandparent's house, toeing the ground, as the neighbours dog comes and stands by your side. Nuzzling your leg, as you look down, smiling and patting her head.

You move away from the counter, grabbing two mugs filled with coffee as you bring them into the living room, the view from your kitchen window fading from your thoughts. Strictly Come Dancing is on the TV, your grandma commentating the whole time, giving her opinion on the dances.

Sometimes you’re twenty-one and you no longer feel like you fit into the skin that makes up your body. You feel itchy and everything around you feels surreal. Almost as if you’re trying to wade through water but you’re stuck in the middle of a lake, you don’t know how to swim and you realise that you’re in too deep.

Sometimes you’re twenty-one and you’re sitting in a café in London, having just paid five pounds for a coffee with the remaining money you have left over (which, surprise, isn’t a lot) as you hold your partner’s hand and talk about work.

Sometimes you’retwenty-one and you’re walking through a city that you used to call home and you think to yourself … what if you gave it another shot?

Sometimes you’re twenty-one and you think about how many coffees you made this year and how many times you locked yourself in the bathroom of your old work and cried. In hindsight, you probably should have left there sooner, but curiosity killed the cat, and you thought it was going to get better. Spoiler: it got worse. They didn't pay.

Saskia Müller, 21 she/her

Sometimes you’re twenty-one and you read your old journal entries from 2020, where you used to write in capitals, affirmations that were supposed to uplift your mental health and not make it worse.

You think to yourself that you should probably start that again.

Sometimes you’re twenty-one and you wish that you had more time and more conversations with the people you loved — you wish that things weren’t so complicated.

Sometimes you’re twenty-one and you realise that this was the first year since you were sixteen that you felt real loneliness. At the same time, you’ve come to love your hometown again, you don’t hate it as much as you did. You are grateful for your siblings and grateful for all of the time you spent there this year. Even though it pains you to see your brother cry whenever you leave, you know that there will always be a place for you there.

Sometimes you’re twenty-one and all you need to hear is “I love you” or “I’m sorry” or “It wasn’t your fault.”

Sometimes you’re twenty-one and you’re sitting in your living room, wiping away tears from your eyes as your partner wraps you up in her arms. She’s whispering that you’re going to be okay, that it will all be over soon. That this grief that sometimes takes you into a chokehold will subside and it will get easier. That although it feels like it’s the end of the world right now, it will get better. The pain will ease up, you’ll be able to move on and while that won’t be for a while, you’ll find new ways to honour your grandad.

You realise that although you don’t need much, you want more. Is that selfish? You’re not quite sure, but you don’t tell anyone just in case it is. Sometimes you’re twenty-one and you realise that living is a gift, and you don’t need to pretend to know what’s wrong or right. That watching The Avengers for the first time and hyper-fixating over Scarlett Johansson's nose isn’t a crime. That singing along to that one song over and over again five times is actually a brilliant way to pass your time. You realise that everything you do with your time isn’t wasting it, rather living it instead. That all of the walks you take down the same roads, is a gift. It’s a gift to know your way around the town you grew up in, it’s a gift to live with your partner.

Although, you’re still scarred from ableism and working is really scary right now, you think about all of the times something was horrible and then realise that you got through it. Just like you’ll get through this. Life doesn’t end when a tragedy happens and you found that out the hard way with your grandad, so you just have to keep going. Of course, you’re sad that you feel like this because of something that happened, and it sucks that both your body and mind, is still reaping the effects of something terrible, but you know it won’t be like this forever.

Twenty-one is also this: There used to be comfort in a certain number in your phone, or friends that didn’t live so far away or a family that felt put together. But now, everything feels foreign. It’s the first time that you feel old, the first time you realise that you’re an adult now. You can’t remember how you got from sixteen to twenty-one in what feels like no time at all and suddenly you’re overcome with a want to be small again. You feel like a stranger to yourself, your aunt finishes her tea. Your Mum puts the washing out.

Your brother giggles at a TikTok she just saw. The dog curls up with her head in your lap. Your Grandma correctly guesses the winner. You’re sprung back into reality again and you breathe in and out.

You’ll be fine in five minutes or so … or at least you hope. you’re grateful to be alive and you’re grateful for the opportunity to reach twenty-two … yet another age you never thought you’d see the day of.

Untitled dark angel wings shrouded in sundown you walk at my shoulder muttering to yourself about each of my bitter failures. i understand you’re simply a nasty habit an addiction to deprecation but i don’t know who would talk to me if you walked away.

Florence Howarth, 22 She/Her Edinburgh, Scotland @fleetingflorapoetry

Self Love Letter To the girl I knew a year ago, It is very rare to see you these days, which is a shame. You don’t know that being around you is like standing face first into a soothing ocean breeze with the sun glistening on my freckles. Your presence is a light capable of lessening the pressure of reality around anyone. Being around your animated and blissful joy feels like the euphoric wonder of a Disney film. It is equivalent to a thousand fluorescent fireflies. It is what you are known for; your signature infectious smile and loud echoing laugh. People are amazed at your giddy optimism. I am too honestly.

The girl she is now, or should I say the girl I am now couldn't be further from this. I am a ghost of the girl I was a year ago, hovering around her body waiting to be reunited with her imperishable happiness. The darkness that has penetrated my mind makes me feel like a stranger to myself. Its shadows lengthen into the caverns of my mind and deplete what joy is left. No one, not even I could have guessed this could have happened to a brighter person.

Now...

I have lost the sparkle from my eyes and smile.

My laugh has been quietened.

My optimism has been corrupted by the dark shadows of anxiety.

I have a defeated sense of self.

@thoughtsofahawk (on Instagram)

Isabella Hawkins, 22 she/her Melbourne, Australia

My tunnel vision reaches out desperately to a time before all the chaos anxiety brought in my life. It is an unhealthy way to view my recovery and healing. I have been misguided by my goal to regain the girl I lost a year ago. However I have recently learned this is unfair: a comparison of people my age, friends, family, societal expectations and especially with myself before mental illness. This struggle encourages inner battles that cause spirals of questions.

Why does everything I do come with great effort, when it comes so effortlessly for everyone else? Why have I lost the sparkle that used to shine so brightly?

Why is it so hard to reignite?

Why is everything so hard now?

Why? But to the girl I know now, I know you are going through an immensely hard time mentally that you couldn't even imagined a year ago. I know things have changed but it has made you stronger and given you wisdom you didn’t think you needed. You are learning to be more forgiving of yourself, to put yourself first, and to start the long treacherous road of a healing journey. Please know the struggle has taught me how important I am. It was a crucial step in being more forgiving with myself. So when you feel yourself starting to slip back into the depths of those dark caves, tell yourself its ok. Difficult thoughts and emotions are hard, but you have walked out of those places before.

This letter isn't a plea to get you back. I am different to who I was a year ago. I just wanted to say that I appreciate the girl with unknowing bravery and an innocent beauty. I am excited to see fleeting moments of selfdiscovery and to give this extension of myself the compassion she finally deserves. It was nice knowing you old friend.

Love from the woman I am becoming :)

HING ELSE NOT HUMAN: SOMETHING ELSE NOT HUM

i am not human i am something else augmented and diminished high and low all at once not lesser but true greatness i am indeed i am not human i am something else unnatural amalgamated elements nowhere and everywhere love and hatred bright and dull oscillating back and forth all at once i am not human and don’t have to be for i am beyond i transcend i am timeless like it or not i transgress any social construct of mentally well or unwell ‘Cause I Am Not Human I Am Something Else

Mari Lee Rose She/Her San Juan, PR @writermarileerose on Instagram

Easy Does It Zine THECURRENT(ANDFRAGILE)EMOTIONAL STATEOFA20SOMETHING*

volume 2