Beautiful Things by

Emma Alai

After Sei Shonagon

Your eyelashes flutter just a few times before you unmask your eyes and present them to the day. It is surprisingly simple to come to consciousness when the sun is your alarm. You sit up tall and spread your body out as far as it will reach. One big stretch and it is time to start your day. What a beautiful morning. It is a cool summer night. You are sitting with your closest friends around the fire. You wrap yourself in your sweatshirt that smells like smoke. You look up at the dark sky and see many stars and realize that there are many more. Your friends laugh, the fire pops, and the crickets sing. This is a very ordinary, but very beautiful moment.

You are walking through the hall thinking about your schedule, your responsibilities, your stress, your day, your tomorrow, your yesterday when, suddenly, you see another person walking toward you. You move left, but so do they. You move right, and they follow. You both share a laugh as you realize that you are stuck in this moment to acknowledge each other. To see each other. You smile at the awkward situation as you finally part to go on with your day. What were you thinking about again?

You are sitting on a plane on your way home. You got the window seat, your favorite. The plane accelerates and you are pushed back into your seat. As the wheels lift up from the ground, you look out the window and see the airport getting smaller and smaller until it looks like it could fit into your hand. There are so many buildings down there. So many cars. So many lives. You, along with everybody on the plane, and everybody on the planet are living your own stories. They are all complex and developed, yet, thirty thousand feet up in the air, everything feels peaceful. Simple.

The timer goes off. The whole room smells of chocolate and sugar. You only spent ten minutes making them, but you have been waiting for them all week. He tells you not to eat them yet because they are too hot and will fall apart. You grab one anyway and shovel it into your mouth. It is almost too hot to eat and there is chocolate all over your hands and face. He says, “I told you so,” which you knew he was going to say. He stares at your eyes and wraps his arms around your waist. He smiles. You try not to laugh with cookies in your mouth.

It is getting late. The yelling comes and goes like the tide of the ocean. You no longer remember how you started arguing. How did this happen? He slams the door and the piercing noise shatters your ears. Your heart skips a beat. Your chest becomes so heavy that it pulls your body to the floor. The tears come all at once and then not at all. Your face burns and the salt offends your tongue. You let out one loud scream that drives out the rest of your energy. The release of such raw emotion feels freeing. You lay on the floor staring at the ceiling. Everything becomes very still.

The first wave just barely reaches your feet. It feels cold and wonderful. The water is so clear that you can easily see the sea glass and shells that decorate the floor. You take three big steps and dive into the next wave that comes crashing onto the shore. It is a shock to your system. You swim toward the skyline, giving in to every wave that threatens you. When your arms become too tired to carry on, you look back and see the waves behind you. You lift your toes out of the water and rest your head on the surface. The ocean gently rocks you to the rhythm of the waves.

You heave the glass bottle toward the wall. The fragments fly toward every end of the room. Your hands shake as you pick up a piece. You look around the room and see the reflection of the light sparkling off of the thousands of crystals scattered on the floor. The whole room glistens. Now it’s time to clean it up.

It is way past time to clean your room. You look at the piles of clutter that have collected on your dresser, your nightstand, your desk, and even your bed now. “It isn’t messy, it’s just lived in,” you think to yourself. You know this is a lie. You scan the room for several minutes deciding where to start. You finally rest your eyes on the top drawer of your dresser. Upon opening it, you find old toys and games that you haven’t seen since you were a child. Your eyes widen with nostalgia and you take everything out. You forgot you had that one. It was your favorite.

You play with it for hours in the pile of junk that you will get to later.

You come home to find a box of chocolates on the counter. There is a note on it addressed to you! An unexpected gift is always a beautiful thing.

They say that people look peaceful when they pass away, but you cannot help but think of how violent it must actually feel. The transformation they undergo from something to nothing cannot be fully understood. It feels unfair, but you know that this is everybody’s fate. You wonder what happens now. Where do they go now? The emptiness that the world will feel without them is immense, but you would like to believe that they are moving on to more beautiful things.

Dim lights are the most kind to the eyes and to the soul. You light a match and touch the flame to the wick of the engine. The hot air fills the lantern and it slowly levitates away from your hand. It joins the other hundreds of lanterns as they fly up into the sky to meet the stars. The small flames fill the night sky with a warm orange hue.

There’s a message on your voicemail telling you, Thomas, to come home because dinner is ready, except you are not Thomas and dinner is certainly not ready. It must be a wrong number. You giggle at the threatening tone of voice and abrupt ending. Although it is such an impersonal message, it feels somewhat invasive to have this glimpse into someone else’s life. You wonder about Thomas and what he will have for dinner.

As a matter of fact, he might miss dinner tonight.

A small ant crawls onto the porch. It heads straight for the cracker crumb that you dropped earlier in the evening. The crumb is probably ten times the size of the ant, but that does not deter it. It approaches the piece of cracker and effortlessly hoists it over its head. It is amazing how strong the ant is for its size. Where is the ant taking the crumb? Who will he give it to? Bugs live entire lives that we don’t think about.

You place your mug on an old wooden coffee table. Next to the mug, you notice several scratches. Yet, these blemishes do not ruin the table, but rather add life to it. Imperfections are a beautiful thing.

You look at her eyes and her entire face morphs in front of you. You never noticed the complexity of her appearance before now. The purple smudges on the sides of her nose show loss and her eyes tell stories. Her dark hair is neither straight nor curly, aside from the small ringlets of fluff that frame her face. Her smile creates small wrinkles on the corner of her mouth and constructs shallow dimples about an inch away. She exposes slightly crooked, but clean teeth.

Her eyes squint with pleasure and three lines on the corner of her eyes validate her maturity. She seems to age, not with time, but with life. She is naturally beautiful.

You pick up a smooth beige stone near the river. It has a few dark grey specks on it and it is stained with mud. You throw it into the river, but it is too thick to leap off of the surface. You look down to find a flat one that could be skipped. Upon searching, you realize how different every rock is. In fact, there may not be any two rocks that look exactly the same. You begin to wonder how many rocks there are in the entire world. Is a mountain considered a rock? Is the planet considered a rock? You pick up another stone and throw it in the river. It skips.

Your stomach is fluttering and your hands are almost numb. He slowly moves closer and your excitement builds. He rests his hands below your ears and gives you one last look. Then a kiss. His touch is soft at first, but builds in pressure as he draws you in closer. This moment is the only one that exists and the whole world melts away. This is a beautiful thing.

Your body feels heavy, but your eyes are glued open. You sit firmly against the headboard grasping your blanket. You open your eyes very wide and then squint them until they are shut. It does not make a difference. There is nothing, but there could be anything. This might be the darkest dark that you have ever experienced. Your mind has deprived your body of its right to sleep and your body has deprived your mind of its ability to relax. Your heartbeat quickens and you move your hands in front of your face in a defensive move. Panic sets in.

There is nothing, yet there is everything. Something in your chest jolts violently and you gasp. Your hand flies spastically until it reaches the lamp. The light brings the reality of the room into your mind and gives you relief.

You are swinging gently on a rainbow knitted hammock. As it swings, all of your troubles become small. Back and forth. Back. And forth.

After everything you’ve experienced, you wonder how a God, a benevolent God, could actually exist. There cannot be a God that allows this to happen. It is cruel. A feeling of anger, and then emptiness overcomes you. There is nobody to answer your pleas for mercy. You are absolutely and utterly alone. There is nothing good. There is nothing beautiful. This moment of rock bottom is, in fact, a beautiful milestone of life.

You have endured a particularly cold winter. You put on your coat to brace for the freezing temperatures only to find that a warm breeze hits you as you leave the door. The sun shines on your face and a wave of relaxation moves through your body. It is warm.

A deep breath can heal even the worst of pains. You inhale what you imagine to be a bright, glowing, peaceful breath. You exhale the sorrows and heaviness of yesterday’s troubles. There is nothing wrong with this moment. You inhale again and hold the air in your lungs for five, ten, maybe twenty seconds. You release it and you feel much lighter.

Lifted 2 by Sara Alattar

Blueprintsby by Lexi Singh

Ms. E had an early blueprint of me

I want to be who she wanted me to be—

Someone who can see beyond positivist science and the echo chambers of large lecture halls

Someone who seeks out literature and films that challenge my worldview Someone who knows that advancement in learning is more about questions than answers

Since I left the space I shared with Ms. E—

I have stopped thinking about how Carl Sagan and Annie Dillard influenced me

I have placed my self-worth into percentages I have walked away from moments where I could have shown hidden aspects of myself

I have learned vulnerability is a skill we must practice Each day is a chance to try out a new lens Consider the early blueprints others have made of you And take from them what you can

I am not Ms. E’s blueprint I am not even my own

Ventilation by Madeline DiGiovanni

Regarding CO2 transport, plasma bicarbonate helps carry CO2 to the lungs. They say bicarbonate is the most important buffer in the body. The body inspires O2 and expires CO2.

My body is in the park. My elbows are on my knees. My hands are on my face. My lungs are my lungs; they are doing their job.

At the lungs, increased minute ventilation blows off the CO2, leading to a decreased PCO2 relative to normal, and an accompanying hypocapnia. The consequence is respiratory alkalosis.

This is respiratory alkalosis. I am in respiratory alkalosis. It is important for me to remember respiratory alkalosis. I should know these things. They are expecting me to know these things. I am two blocks from the hospital. I am not strong enough for this. Is it possible that I am unintentionally doing this on purpose; I wonder every time. I will be late if I keep this up.

Minute ventilation is increased, respiratory rate is increased, tidal volume is increased. Tidal volume is the volume of air that is inhaled during a normal breath at rest. Diaphragmatic breathing is encouraged. C3, 4, 5 keeps the diaphragm alive. You should have a normal breath at rest. There is no reason you should not have normal breaths at rest.

Over a prolonged period of time, respiratory alkalosis can arise as a compensatory mechanism for metabolic acidosis. What acidosis led me here, what acrid metabolite of something I do not yet understand seeps into my interstitium, seems insidious. You idiot. You should know these things. Why aren’t you stronger than this? You are doing this on purpose. My body is in the park. My elbows are on my knees. My hands are on my face. My lungs are my lungs. They are doing their job. This is respiratory alkalosis. My eyes are not opening. My hands will not move. I must look ridiculous just focus on breathing. What will they say? How will you ever make it? Breathe. Breathe. Let them know you will be late. This is unprofessional. You must let them know. You must. You must breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. You must keep your carbon dioxide. Keep it. Keep it.

My body is in the park. I am two blocks from the hospital. Respiratory alkalosis is breathing out too much carbon dioxide; bicarbonate is the most important buffer in the body.

My lungs are my lungs; they are doing their job.

The body inspires. The body expires.

I tell them I’m sorry. They tell me, “Go home. It’s okay.

Take care.”

Reflect VII by Jaskaran Singh

Dhillon

Questioning. Questioning. Questioning. Mama, papa, tatang, What am I doing here?

A seedling blows into a field of unfamiliar territory. What am I doing here?

Finding my roots. Finally i see I am not lost. but exactly where I am meant to be.

Force of Nature by Rachel Felix

Yes, I am different. Yes, no one looks like me, but therein lies the beauty of diversity. A breath of fresh air to breathe life into all that can be. Blossoming, becoming, believing. I know what I bring.

Something so special. For I am a forest of endless possibilities.