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THE MIND

To all of our lovely Peaches, We are so excited to introduce our second print-run of the 2020/21 academic year! In connection with ‘THE BODY’, we have focused this print-run on the mind. The mind and body are crucial in their individual forms. Each is a vast territory that art has sought to charter for many millennia. What is, however, so great about both the body and the mind is how intertwined they are in each other. They are reliant on each other. When one goes left, the other takes note (whether it follows usually depends on its mood that day). In my last editor’s note, I expressed hope for healing - not just from the pandemic but from everything difficult that has come our way in this recent period. With some thought, I have realised that healing is too obscure an ask. Healing can mean many things, and with all of those things can come pressure. So, instead of hope for healing, I am presenting this edition of PEACH as a space of reckoning. The mind is many things. It is the self, the other, reality, fantasy, instinct, memories, emotions, play, protection, pleasure, pain, et al. We wanted ‘THE MIND’ to be a place to approach all of these things as they arise naturally, letting them stay (or go) as and when they do - with no pressure for reconciliation in the process. We hope that both our brilliant contributors and readers may find that here. As always, I can’t write an editor’s note without offering credit to those most deserving. Thank you always to the brilliant PEACH Team for bringing our second print-run to life! The biggest thank you, however, goes to all of the contributors. Like the body, the mind can be so difficult to approach. Thank you for doing so with such openness and letting us print all the wonderful things that came from it! Finally, thank you to our readers. We have managed to establish a little family of Peaches and, for that, we are so grateful. With that, I welcome you to ‘THE MIND’! Now go! Get lost in it! Yours, Lara Editor in Chief of PEACH Magazine

CONTENTS If Dementia Could Remember Anthony Crittenden Smile Masuma Sultana Ethereal presences Jeweeria Arif Grief: a silent memory Alexandra Craveiro Getting Ready Anastasia Gremyakina don’t mind me Sofia Renzi Conflict Abbie Harrison Baby brain Salma Ali It’s all in your head Izzy Colvin

CONTENTS Monsoon Season Alisha Isherwood Edge of my Mind Emma Macpherson In the back of my mind Saja I can’t make my mind up Maya Barter FREEDOM FROM THE FRINGE Boudhayan Pressure Yanisha Luckhea Reality Levey Rodrigues why? Sabirin ‘poetinahijab’ Imagine getting struck by lightning Maria Krampfl

If Dementia Could Remember Anthony Crittenden (he/him) Content Warning: Dementia As I rock away in my rocking chair Silver thoughts and thinning hair Dementia feeds mulberry leaves to Silkworms cocooned in a mind marooned. I’ve forgotten what I’ve remembered And I can’t remember what I’ve forgotten. Mementos dance with the demons of dementia Devilish laughs and amnesiac cackles Taunt my soul, pulling at its shackles. Faces once familiar, Unrecognisable – just noses, ears, eyes, mouths. If dementia could remember The name of the young man who visits Or the love of the elderly woman who cries at my bedside It would say these words, ‘Of all the memories you think I’ve taken, I’ve been saving the good ones To relive with you...for when you’ve truly awakened.’

Smile

Masuma Sultana (she/her)

His eyes lost their light. He doesn’t know where it went or where he can find it. Black flowers rise from the deadened soil of his thoughts curled up on his lonely bed in filthy, weeks-old clothes. His mind pours dark, rusted grey water to nourish the flowers taking root. The cold touch of his oldest friend stirs him. He slowly turns to his friend and smiles.

Ethereal presences

Jeweeria Arif (she/her)

Grief: a silent memory

Alexandra Craveiro (she/her)

Like in the most – predictable – tales, first the impenitent saw cut you; but the tired silence was the true disaster. We scattered in that kitchen over two days – branches – emotions (written), not discussed, like in the most – predictable – tales. ‘Twas the deadest hours. Those reticent wails cut through the empty air – the bird’s song; hushed. The tired silence was the true disaster. The dog! No. No barks or cries – nature fails. Wordless conversations over a silenced TV; like in the most – predictable – tales. Our muted footsteps walking through your trails taking you to your resting place – still, trust: the tired silence was the true disaster. The tender memory of you prevails, yet the once, sturdy structure remains – crushed. Like in the most predictable tales, the tired silence was the true disaster.

Getting ready.

Anastasia Gremyakina (she/her) Content Warning: Body dysphoria, fatphobia and mentions of weight My hair looks good today. Maybe curl it? Your face looks dull this way. Hmm, curly hair suits me better, that’s true. And your makeup... Maybe some more rouge? You’re so pale lately. If only you knew! Right, a healthier look... Oh no... no, no, no, that’s already too much. Do your makeup again, you look horrible. Why? I think I look good to— Mmmm... nooo. Let’s do it again. Your cheeks look chubby. Apply some more contouring. But I already spent an hour getting re— No, no, again! Do it again! Well at least the outfit looks perfect! This dress makes me look so— Fat. It makes you look fat. Come on, turn around. And one more time. Look, from this angle they can see your fat rolls. Yesterday’s pizza is showing, you don’t want them to think you don’t train, do you? No, of course not! But— Maybe do some sit-ups before you go as well. 5

Yes, that’s a good idea, a quick workout will make me feel better. Oh no, look at your hair now. It’s ruined. Why don’t you do it again? But I’m already late. So you want them to think you don’t care about your appearance? You want them to see how ugly you are? But I look pretty... And more concealer. That acne is so repulsive. God, why would anyone even invite you anywhere? Well, I’m a good friend and I’m fun... You really think that? I bet they are only friends with you out of pity. That’s it! They feel sorry for you. No, that’s not right. You’re just overthinking. They love me and— Aaaaand they want you to disappear. Even your parents want that. How are you so oblivious? You think they do? Oh yes, honey. Why would anyone want you? I didn’t know you’re dumb as well. What are you thinking going there? Ugh, yes, what am I even thinking? Everyone hates me. So... More concealer? Everyone hates me! Yeah. Want another piece of the leftover pizza? But you said I’m already fat enough. 6

Your weight is already critical. 52 kilograms. Come on! If you didn’t notice until now, then I guess nothing will make it worse. Actually, that puts me at a normal BMI value. Ah, the internet is toxic. I am telling you, you are definitely overweight. Don’t you believe me? Well, actually, I feel good in my body... What? I feel good and I think I’m beautiful! Look. Ah stop this nonsense, you know I always win. No, look! My eyes stand out with this eyeliner and my lips are full even without any gloss. I love my curves and I don’t think I need to change my clothes. Stop. Before you started talking I felt pretty. Why do you always have to ruin things? Well, if you weren’t thinking these things, I wouldn’t be saying them. Then I want to stop making myself feel miserable. But... I think it’s time for you to go. See you tomorrow when you’re getting ready again then.

don’t mind me

Sofia Renzi (she/her)

Conflict

Abbie Harrison (she/her) The sun guides the sunflower to bloom Creates time, light But do I crave it for the warmth it provides? After all, the yellow hurts my eyes I bask in the foreseeable rhythm But is this what I really want? And what is wrong with wanting the moon? I ache for its cool gaze Soothe my pale skin My soul The moon is kind Slow and soft Heal my wounds You and I are one alike So I live, Enslaved in the cycles of night and day Passively observing the changes Hoping for clarity

Baby brain

Salma Ali (she/her) Content Warning: Infant abuse

It was fragile. That’s what I remember thinking as I cradled it in my arms. It pulsated and quietly cooed, though it did not stir more than that. I had wrapped it in blankets, fearing that it would slip out of my hands and out of my reach entirely. I shouldn’t have worried. Its contentment was clear for now. I could see where I had hurt it in the past, the weakened spots across its sides and malnourishment visible at its core. I had not cared for it as well as I should have, but I did not feel guilt. How could I? I had not cared for it as it had not cared for me. It had left me to fend for myself in many a situation before. As I held it to my bosom, I realised that it was not what I wanted it to be. Could I change it? Did I have the means in my possession to be able to do that? I did not think I did. Perhaps in rejecting it, I could regain control. I had fought with it for so long. Maybe, by denouncing it all together, I would achieve something.

It’s all in your head Izzy Colvin (she/her)

Content Warning: Gaslighting, mental health decline and suicide allusion “It’s all in your head,” that’s what they said to her when she tried talking to them; it had become their default response. simple yet effective: finishing the conversation before it even started. “It’s all in your head,” they always said it in a certain way; almost condescending almost as if they didn’t believe her when she said that she was suffocating “It’s all in your head,” they didn’t understand. that she was fighting, crying, screaming for help. that she was drained, exhausted, giving up. 11

“It’s all in your head,” sometimes she felt like she was drowning; other times she just felt numb. those were the worst times. “It’s all in your head,” that’s what they said to her when she told them that it was over; that she was done fighting. “It’s all in your head,” that’s what they said to her when she tried talking to them; it had become their default response. as if they don’t realise, They left her for dead.

Monsoon Season

Alisha Isherwood (all pronouns) The rain doesn’t arrive that often anymore, but when it does, it pours. First come the clouds, casting a grey tone across the trees and grass, swallowing up the yellow of the sun and the blue of the sky. Then comes the rain, seeming to last for months. It veils the daylight in a watery haze and blurs the days as they pass. As it falls to the ground, it pelts, whipping the concrete, the plant pots, the houses, making every bucket, dip and vessel heavy and sluggish. What cannot be carried must be left to endure the storm. They are too heavy now, and I vow to return on a sunnier day. Next time I’ll prepare for this, I tell myself. Then comes the fog. I don’t remember when it first came, but it’s thicker now. I cannot see things come and go. I cannot see the road in front of me. Nothing seems to stay, and the dense air infiltrates every little space. There are some days where it clears, and I’m able to see the happy days that came before, the laughter that has long faded, the smiles already beamed. But it’s foggy now, and I can only see my hands in front of me. I watch the rain from the inside. It’s safe and detached here; it prevents the droplets from landing and stinging the skin. I close the blinds, I turn away from the windows, I dive under covers. But a coldness seeps in. A grey colour is cast across the walls. The air becomes stale. Sometimes, the damp eases its way inside, and it stings. 13

What should be a tether becomes a clamp, a tag on an ankle, a grip on an arm, a pinch on an earlobe. I must not leave the house while the rain pelts - I must wait for it to shift. I must sit in the company that keeps me here; a thankful love and obsession transformed into a hitching post. Maybe feeling the rain will make it pass quicker. Maybe it’ll awaken the drowsiness, wash away the heaviness. It startles me - how quickly the air becomes stale when you have all the windows closed, making it dusty to breathe, and how the yellow of a lightbulb eventually dries your eyes, making it painful to keep them open for all those hours. You quickly get used to the moss that grows over the tips of your feet, up your legs and torso, and how your tongue begins to dry and shrivel; every taste rendered flat and mediocre. How cotton wool begins to grow in a head, how a smoothness settles and a grogginess nests. A heart becomes hollow, the limbs become light. Eventually, there’s a warm crack in the clouds. The painful, loud whipping of the hail becomes a gentle patter. I take a reluctant peek through the blinds, and I’m met with a warmth that illuminates my face and widens my eyes. The clouds are parting, the fog becomes thin. The walls become the colour I painted them, the grip around my ankle loosens. As the drowsiness lifts, I begin to scrape away the moss, fluff the wool in my skull. The hollowness is no longer a lonely reminder of something lost but the liberating proof of a new beginning - a spring cleaning of the soul. It’s becoming warmer. I begin to learn, I begin to feel full. As the last drops fall, I tip the water out of the empty plant pots, the shoes, the mugs, the buckets - and begin to assess the damage. Whilst the raindrops pelted, acidic and thick, they washed away the stains left behind. As I pick up each object, 14

nurturing them back to health, they feel different, fresh and new - the colours are bright and illuminating, shinier than before. I had never noticed how impressive the paintwork was, how unique the decorations, how useful the design. There comes a point where I must venture out of the door. The concrete is dry once again, with only the dew on the grass as a reminder of the storm. My eyes can finally see the way the sun shines through the gaps of the trees, the way the grass sways through the breeze, the ways in which the neighbours greet and laugh with each other. I can hear the soft singing of birds again, the rustling of bushes, the bubbling of children as they get their first taste of spring. I stop at an opening of trees, familiar and soft. The fog – thin but persevering – is completely wafted away for a moment. These memories are never so bright and vivid, so I relish them, vowing to myself that I will never let them slip through my fingers. I see my head in your lap while we sit in a sunny field. I see us startled by voices in the sunny woods. I see us skipping through leaves and swinging on tall tree branches. I see you throwing a tissue into some trees. I see the way we imagined a den in the opening. I see us laughing at an inside joke that is incomprehensible to others. I see how we looked out of the water in a soft, comfortable silence. I never understood the point of walking until now; because I see us, and I wonder how I ever wanted to let all of this go.

Edge of my Mind

Emma Macpherson (she/her)

Synonymous of renewal as well as beginning Heart and Body bloom in full spring Thankfully mindful of sweet kisses of fire But party to bittersweet dreams desire You cannot and will not be damned to oblivion Because of trivial thoughts born out of pure imagination. Mind and Soul are but currencies Whispering malicious but reassuring little melodies. Constantly battling scorching human-made truths; Wishing to voice silenced but inescapable youths. It is not about the answer but the mystery It is not a labyrinth but an open sea

In the back of my mind Saja (she/her)

The many wonders of a green record Slipping out of its sleeve. Skipping every so ‘oh no’, My record player’s broken you see, I’ve had it so many years, it’s not like how it was before, But it still plays. She still sings. Stevie asks me to lie, Sweet little lies. If I close my eyes tight enough, I’m awake in 1987, renting a booth Free from religion Shackled to the night. Bigger hair, wider sleeves, strong shoulders Belonging to someone new every night. It’s no wonder why I never miss a beat. A broken record left on repeat

I can’t make up my mind - Maya Barter (she/her)

FREEDOM FROM THE FRINGE Boudhayan (he/him)

In the portable time machine of her purse, she carries a 6th century textbook. Transcribed to fulfil the destiny of the holder. It is not a tradition if it is not time honoured. But it was created and fulfilled methodically for a period. These are systems designed to prevent humanity from making the same mistake again. Do you necessarily burn your hand to learn the dangers of fire? Some do. Others are born with an innate respect for fire. This glorious nonentity that can suck away everything given the right amount of wind. Like soil and water for plants. The memories in the back of my mind are governed by low-light imaging technology. Safe spaces created by dim bulbs that have patterns in themselves. We are a 2-person triad with a third wheel missing. The distance of a viable destination is calculated on the back of your hand. I tremble daily at the hope of your goodbye. No anticipatory bail for this prison. I live life in a future where my fears are in the past. Where the tears for the dead are already spent so I feel at temporary peace. And that is all I look for. A trial room changing space for some severed baggage. Time is a whore, she gives herself away too easily. I pried into her purse once. 19

The starkness of her spirit reflected in the scarceness of her possessions. A lipstick of pig’s blood and a padded bra for envy. Do you even know me? Derelict snowmen that I create from shifting solid water driveways. Resistance is futile, says the refrigerator at full power. I pull icicles in your cave. A shallow reminder that geology is not for the faint of heart. My electronics are horse powered. Like I’m living in a mid-century buggy. A single drifting cloud making faces at me as it changes shape mid-air. Like a ballerina on her final dance lesson. Customary assistance but unrequired. Do you feel this pull? An embryonic tension for a supposed Easter egg that will never make it in my burrow. Our distance in graphs is merely the starting point of a curve. A constant loop-the-loop that affirms the idea of existence in roller coasters. I pull away knowing the strength of your attachment. A temporary advantage for an otherwise impoverished soul. This moment of strength is a work of centuries. A secondary signpost at life’s crossing. I applied for a certificate course in revelations. Treasure hunts always start in the head. The pot of gold is made of skeletons in your closet. What are you truly looking for? This doctor can diagnose the human condition. He prescribes beaches, the recreational drug of changing landscapes. 20

Pressure

Yanisha Luckhea (she/her) Many people describe pressure as a weight on their shoulders, but I imagine it, I feel it, as a needle being slowly pushed into my skin. The initial pain, the internal questions, thoughts of: are you smart enough? are you productive enough? are you nice enough? are you accomplished enough? Have I done enough? They are injected and seep into my skin, into my blood, I feel them circling my body, internal sharks, hungry and imminent, waiting to strike and rip me to shreds. They make their way to my brain, grabbing their prey and altering my mind’s makeup, swirling and combining with my thoughts, re-arranging and re-building my psyche into a barrier that is architecturally strong. It doesn’t break. I cannot break it. Enough.

Reality

Levey Rodrigues (she/her) Inevitable realisations are here to stay My state of mind has withdrawn from reality Happiness and peace are fleeting but powerful When the high is gone, I’m sober with my thoughts My happiness seems to have a lease I know I can travel back to my safe space Guaranteed it will give me solace But fleeting and powerful Permanence? Impossible.

why?

Sabirin ‘poetinahijab’ (she/her) why do i care so much? asking myself too many questions time for questions is also time for worry time and time again time is precious just like some word i’m going to end this with, tenacious. people talk and talk and talk making me feel less when in fact, i’m the star since i’m the one standing at the altar of your gossip but when it’s time to confess people run and invest in time that’s, yet again, not theirs. as i write this i do have people in mind but that’s none of your concern nor is it mine because when it’s time to battle people run from their investments like cattle.

Imagine getting struck by lightning Maria Krampfl (she/her)

A jolt Struck by anything electric enough to keep you charged till the morning, Pacing, shaking, buzzing, An off-grid trip A trance Climaxing in roars of thunder Boiling blood, blinded eyes and for a second, just a second, feeling energy, omnipotent, alive for just that very second never lost, flowing through your veins, filling up your discharged body and your flat mind BLACKOUT The high is superseded by A gnawing knockdown low Tying your body to the ground for the next few days Leaving you strung out and surged Your hair all burned up Your mind all burned out Your polarity in disarray Your frailty on display And still you yearn for it Searching in storms, Living on transmission lines Your feet dangling off the edge You’re starving, craving shocks and spikes, anything but conventional current 24

The energy, you’ll be mainlining it next You can’t rewire yourself, but you can try to overcharge until your veins get cable fire And finally, finally fuse Try getting struck by lightning Spin around in thunderstorms until chance chooses you When was the last time you felt alive? Lightening is a silver whip, The last train leaving the station that’ll get you out of here

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to the peachiest of teams for making this print-run possible! Editor in Chief Lara Draper Jakobsen Deputy Editor Ameerah Ali Assistant Editor Caitlin Evans Marketing Officer Grady Musuamba Events Producer Abbie Harrison We also want to offer a huge thank you to WFM prints for making this print-run possible. Thank you for your support and guidance! And thank you for bringing our little magazine to life! Disclaimer: All otherwise uncredited design details in ‘THE MIND’ (including the cover) can be credited to Lara Draper Jakobsen. The back cover is a royalty-free image designed by bogatyreva and distributed via Shutterstock.com, proceedingly edited by Lara Draper Jakobsen.