Strike Magazine Athens Issue 07

STRIKE ISSUE 07

ATHENS

To my Strike Magazine Community, I am thankful I applied to join Strike when I was a curious and intimidated sophomore. I’ll admit my first semester on Strike was hard. I was struggling to figure out where I fit in, and if I even did fit in at all. But, I am so grateful I put the effort in and showed up because the output I’ve received from this community of creatives is something I will always cherish.

As I graduate and leave Athens and Strike behind, I’m saddened deeply. Wherever I put my feet on the ground next, I will be searching for something like this to be a part of. As a business major, you aren’t surrounded by a lot of creative energy and Strike has been my sweet escape.

People say home is where the heart is, and when I think of Strike I think about the energy you all bring. No matter where we are, The Dodd, Paloma Park, our Launch Party, or crossing paths on campus, you can feel the energy. It’s palpable. That is what I will miss the most. The eclectic, spunky, joyful energy you all bring is beyond contagious and cannot wait to witness you each flourish and spread that energy in new places across the globe.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for trusting me to represent the essence of Strike through our External efforts. I appreciate and admire each of you so much.

Thank you to my wonderful directors. Emily and Brandon: I cannot wait to see your European adventure next semester. Thank you both for being the backbone of this team. Paige: You’ll be my best friend forever; I’ll be visiting Austin before you know it.

Greta: Keep being your fabulous self. I cannot wait to see where the world takes you. Chloe: I am so proud of your resilience in leading a new team and cannot wait to see how Strike will continue to give back. Kylie and Teddy: Thank you both for holding us all together. I’m so excited to see you both excel next year in your promoted positions *wink wink*!

Nastasia, Sydney, Miles, Grace, and Caylin: Thank you for pushing me, teaching me new things, being a helping hand, and becoming dear friends. I can’t wait to watch you all grow in Strike and beyond. Promise to stay in touch?

Mary Margaret Perry, External Director

LETTER FROM EXTERNAL

I love you guys so much and you should be so proud of yourselves!

All my love, Strike Out (for the last time), Mary Margaret Perry External Director

Photography by Sagar Patel

LETTER FROM CREATIVE My Strike family, I can’t begin to describe what an integral part of my life Strike has been over the past 4 years and five issues. Coming to Athens, I looked for somewhere that I felt like I belonged as an individual, and when I joined Strike my sophomore year for Issue 02, I knew it was where I was supposed to be. On my second-semester Strike application, under the “Why do you want to be a part of Strike?” section, I talked about how I had found a family within the organization, which stands more true than ever in my last semester. I’m unbelievably grateful to have found a community with so many similar people, in which kindness is upheld and creativity is cherished. Strike has taught me so much about myself as a person, a friend, a co-worker, an artist and a leader - more than I could have asked for in my time here, and I would not be who I am today without the experience I’ve had in Strike. To be able to have a community and a platform on which we build such a collaboratively creative project will continue to amaze me long after I leave.

Sydney Burton, Creative Director

To the Issue 07 staff: thank you for your patience and trust in me as your Creative Director. I’m so honored to have been able to direct this issue and I can’t express how proud I am of all the work and talent that went into it. To my incredible creative directors, you all made this issue happen - thank you for carrying the vision through. To Miles, my right-hand man, I can’t imagine lighting a single set without you, or trying to do anything creative without your support. To Mary Margaret, the sweetest and most organized external director, thank you for your diligence.

To my Stas, my twin flame - it was fortune that brought us together again through Strike. I cannot imagine my life, inside or outside of Strike, without you. You are the backbone of Strike and your impact will continue for years to come. To Strike, thank you for all you’ve done for me as an organization. You gave me a home in Athens that will stick with me for the rest of my life.

All my love, Sydney

To my Strike Family, It is with great pleasure that I have served as the Art Director for the current issue of Strike Magazine. I express my heartfelt gratitude to all who have placed their trust in me, contributing to what is arguably the most exceptional edition of Strike Magazine to date (although, I do acknowledge that I tend to make this claim with each new issue). The community cultivated here holds a special place in my heart and is truly irreplaceable. Regrettably, there is not enough time in a day to properly convey my admiration for each and every staff member. Nevertheless, I hope this message serves as a humble attempt to do so: Strike Magazine’s success is a result of the unwavering dedication and hard work of our outstanding team.

In the time that I have spent in this role, I have been consistently impressed by the remarkable achievements we have accomplished together in such a brief period. Our team comprises individuals who are incredibly talented and creative. Your commitment and fellowship towards each other and our organization has repeatedly surpassed my hopes.

It is with pride that I am part of this shared journey with all of you. Looking forward to the next issue!

XOXO Strike out, Miles Harewood Art Director

Miles Harewood, Art Director

About the Issue

SPECTACLE THE ABSURDITY OF THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE

Spec·​ta·​cle: a: something exhibited to view as unusual, notable, or entertaining especially: an eye-catching or dramatic public display b: an object of curiosity or contempt

As we move through life, we find that we are often challenged in our attempts to find rational explanations for the absurd nature of events that take place in it. The occurrence of coincidences and the whims of fate, luck, and fortune become pivotal in our desire to seek pattern and purpose in our lives. Human existence is a spectacle - memorable for the appearance it creates, flashing ephemerally, fleeting, and incomprehensibly unpredictable. It is in these musings that we derive our purposes in life; it is in this absurd futility that we relish. Amongst the gaps in the tapestry of time, it is the weavings of human interconnectedness that hold us together as one greater experience.

Chance reigns supreme in a universe that may be indifferent to human endeavors. Yet, we seek ways to understand it: clutching trinkets and talismans for good luck, creating patterns and traditions, trying to catch a glimpse of clarity amidst the nonsense. Fortune aids us in our pursuit of meaning; in the face of an indifferent cosmos, fortune is also blind to our injustices, so we tend to interpret it as we most desire. Is it our bias and desire that drive the notions of luck and fate, or do luck and fate drive our understanding of the human experience by challenging the idea of what’s real?

Issue 07

Photography by Miles Harewood

Letter From The Editor

To my Strike family, There aren’t enough words to explain what this organization has meant to me over the past four years. I’ve been with Strike since Issue 01 as a member of the founding staff, and now with Issue 07, I am saying goodbye to the most special people and place I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

I joined Strike in the fall of 2020 when I was 19 after moving to Athens. I knew no one in this city, nothing about being an artist, and nothing about being a leader. My life was completely new and constantly changing during a time that was extremely scary and uncertain. When I came to Strike, I instantly felt at home. I found people who were uplifting, supportive, and allowed me to have the space to learn, grow, and express myself.

This organization has always thrived on the foundation of providing community and a sense of belonging to our staff, especially for those who feel like they belong nowhere else. Through every trial, Strike has been a solace and a home amidst the absurdities and uncertainties of life.

To Sydney and Miles— thank you for being my creative partners, closest friends, my rocks, and my biggest supporters. You both mean the world to me, and I’m infinitely grateful for not only your artistic presence as colleagues, but also your friendship and love. I have grown into so much of who I am today because of you, and your influence on me has been strengthening, steadying, and irreplaceable.

To Mary Margaret— thank you for your dedication and hard work as our External Director. To watch Strike grow exponentially and evolve into what it is now has been magical, and I’m so appreciative of our collaboration and our success in hosting so many large-scale (and new!) events. From Strike Fest to fashion shows, we’ve accomplished a mountain of work.

To Grace and Caylin— I cannot possibly express the amount of faith and trust I have in you. Watching you both grow and step into your own has been such a gift. Thank you for your unwavering support, willingness to learn, and openness to change. I don’t know where I would be now without you two by my side, assisting me every step of the way and picking me up when I’m down. I can’t wait to see where you take Strike, and I know wholeheartedly that it’s in the safest, most capable hands. I love you, and I’m always a phone call away.

Lastly, thank you to the entire Strike staff who brought Spectacle to life and has made this organization what it is. The community, friendship, dedication, and passion I see in you all is unmatched. It’s been the greatest honor and a dream come true to create art with my friends. I hope that Strike will be a guide and a safe space for you all like it has been for me, and it is my greatest wish that you find happiness and belonging within the little family we have built.

This will forever be the most influential, life-changing, rewarding experience I’ll have ever had. I could never have imagined at 19 as a Graphics Assistant that I could take on the role of Editor-in-Chief and become the woman I am today. From the bottom of my heart, thank you all for everything.

For one last time, Strike Out Nastasia Rozenberg Editor-in-Chief

Photography by Sagar Patel

Photography by Sagar Patel

Photography by Grace Lang

Marked by duality, Fortune does not have discernment for that which is good nor bad. Its two-faced nature invites unpredictability; its wheel spins relentlessly. Do we believe its promise that even the most coincidental events are part of a greater plan which we should not resist or try to change? Dare we try and pry Fortune’s meddling fingers from our lives? We project our attributes onto it unapologetically, foolishly thinking it will listen to what we most desire. Yet, Fortune is no predictable deity; it is the wild tempest that defies the grasp of reason.

Boundaries of possibility blur. We are bound to it from the beginning.

Genesis explores the notion that all forms of life are brought into the world being bound to the principles of fate and destiny. Fortune is blind to justice, and the seemingly random spins of its wheel are both ruinous and miraculous, taunting our idea of free will. Can our choices have influence over the outcome we are assigned at the genesis of our human life?

Creative Director: Sydney Burton Art Director: Miles Harewood Concept Director: Cayce Sherer Concept Assistant: Madeline Jankowski Photography: James Cookson Styling & Design: Ana Ramos Beauty: Ashanti Meadows Hair: Ashanti Meadows, Cayce Sherer Layout: Sydney Burton, Ansley Jordan, Kira Carruthers Writing: Madeline Jankowski Copy Editing: Caroline Kostuch, Chanel Gaynor Casting: Alice Young Model: Racquel Lynch Production Assistant: Sagar Patel

EDEN Somewhere in the distant ether is a technicolor world called Eden, a sanctuary of splendor and abundance that makes up no more than a speck in our Universe. Eden is a solitary palace to the Goddess of Fortune who tends to the gardens of human luck and destiny. These gardens of souls kiss every corner of Eden, and it is her job to use the preeminent tool, the Wheel of Fortune, to sow the seeds of human serendipity.

For a millennium, the Goddess of Fortune was a woman named Kismet. She sought to maintain balance on Earth with gentle interferences, the delicate revolutions of her Wheel. She was an elusive character with elusive influence, and the gods and goddesses often teased Kismet for her comparatively unimpressive power. Jupiter being the worst of them, the King of the Sky and all the gods. Jupiter was self-righteous, impatient, lustful and quite greedy.

Kismet found him appalling, especially as the king of the ether, and refused to worship him for his sheer lack of humility. To spite Kismet and to amuse himself, Jupiter sent floods and earthquakes to the realm of Eden. Years of antagonizing and suffering went by before Kismet committed a sin that no Goddess of Fortune should ever break: Using the Wheel of Fortune to manipulate the fate of a god.

Dress by Ana Ramos

KISMET at her lowest, wanted revenge for Jupiter’s bullying and indignity, so a spell was spun.

Incantations echoed in the winds of change, the winds that turned her Wheel, and they sang lyrics to a curse that would cause Jupiter to fall in love with Venus, the Goddess of Love and Beauty.

By Kismet’s design, the two would have a child who would be orphaned on Earth, and named after only the totem of Kismet’s power: Fortuna. The consequences of Kismet’s vengeance would dethrone her as the Goddess of Fortune on the child’s 18th birthday, where Kismet would be exiled from Eden and Fortuna would assume the role as the new Goddess of Fortune against her will.

Fortuna led a very troubled life on Earth without her parents, Jupiter and Venus.

As an orphan, she was poor and famished.

On Fortuna’s 18th birthday, she awoke in the realm of Eden. Her eyes were wide open, but she could not see. She could only smell the garden of flowers that surrounded her and feel soft grass beneath her feet. Fortuna roamed across the land of Eden, confused, and stumbled upon an orchard of fruit through her senses.

The fruit was sweet to taste, but it didn’t solve the mystery of her presence in this world. In her wandering, Fortuna heard the hums of rushing rivers and a chorus of animals amid a dense jungle.

Her circumstances, and her frustrations with such, nurtured a temper that attracted loneliness. Like her father, she was arrogant.

But like her mother, she was beautiful. Her hair was luscious, chocolatey and curled, with two silver locks framing her face as if she was caressed by fortune.

As Fortuna grew, she obsessed over her unique beauty to cope with the strife— the lack of control.

However, this would never be enough to supplement the unhappy life she led for the things she could not control. A fated depression fell over Fortuna, and she lost sight of the illustrious gift of life.

And because of Kismet, she would soon lose sight of it completely.

It was there where nature sang to her what the winds of change sang at Fortuna’s birth, and she began to understand her ancestral curse.

This discovery made Fortuna

LIVID.

The Wheel of Fortune, the powerful talisman of human destiny that Kismet abandoned in Eden, rusted.

Fortuna’s gardens failed, and her sanctuary grew barren with silence and loneliness. The fields of flowers were wilted and rotten— it made her nose and skin itch.

The harvest of fruits from her orchard was small and tasteless, and she starved.

The rivers of her jungle ran dry and the singing animals fled, and Fortuna ruminated in her isolation.

The new Empress of Eden neglected the gardens of fortune that she was bound to protect, and, in turn, the human world suffered from

disease, war, and natural disasters.

F

ortuna’s life in Eden, though such a bounteous place, was no different from her life on Earth. The anger

in her soul waned and was soon replaced with sadness and guilt for all the suffering she withstood and, consequently, created. She mourned for seven days, her tears watering each of the once-beautiful gardens of her sanctuary. On the first and second days of grieving, the smelly and wilted flowers of her field grew back.

Her orchard was healthy again, and the fruits of her harvest on the third and fourth days of lamenting were as delicious as ever. The rivers of her jungle refilled, and the animals returned on the fifth and sixth days.

On the seventh day, after facing a damning depression on both Earth and Eden, Fortuna accepted the faults of her essential human nature and began to bridge her human experience with her role as the gardener of destiny. Kismet’s spirit, extradited in the ether, saw this transformation and restored the rusty Wheel of Fortune.

Though Fortuna won’t ever be able to see her impact on human serendipity, she will always be able to feel it.

When she is stressed, she meditates in the plains of fresh flowers and soft grass, and the lives bound to this garden feel Fortuna’s warmth. When she is hungry, she retreats to her orchard, and the souls planted there are blessed in the human world. And when she is lonely, she talks to the rivers and animals of her jungle, tending to the souls there. The Goddess of Fortune is forced to realize that she cannot possibly tend to all three of her gardens at once, and that the mortal world feels the ripples of her design. Thus,

She knows that they will suffer in both her presence and absence; not by choice, but by contract.

the souls, the seeds, must suffer because of her at times. Fortuna’s roots in the human experience are palpable in her everyday life in Eden for this reason. Even as a goddess, she cannot nurture all the souls she protects in all her gardens. She knows that they will suffer in both her presence and absence; not

by choice, but by contract. At Fortuna’s core, despite being the Empress of Eden and the Goddess of Fortune, she has a human experience with a repertoire of grievances and pain that were completely unavoidable by the confines of fate. What she did not know then was that the permanence of these struggles was fabricated in her human mind, for she could not see Kismet’s Wheel of Fortune from Earth.

The human-like qualities in the unraveling of destiny, determined now by a once-human goddess, are precisely the lesson Fortuna teaches with her Wheel of Fortune and her gardens. The Wheel might spin, it might not, it might get stuck, and it might not stop spinning. And her gardens — they might grow, they might not, they might die, and they might grow too large. The subjects of fate aren’t the ones to decide, but Fortuna is, so destiny must remain innate to the human experience so long as she lives in Eden.

Shades That Contrast

Writing: Chanel Gaynor Copy Editing: Blake Witmer, Caroline Kostuch Layout: Sydney Burton

Black and white.

That is all I can see. That is all we can see.

We live a monotonous life, shades of gray filling the spectrum.

This is all I know. This is all we know.

On this day, I make my daily trek to the park. The world passes in a static blur as I trudge towards the bench.

A frail old man approaches me. His skin wrinkles and folds. His eyes wide, almost bulging out of his head. My skin crawls. The air stands still. All signs point to danger.

I avoid the man’s wicked gaze. Pretending to pick the soft white flowers off the deep gray bush, I feel a bony finger slowly tap my shoulder.

Hesitantly, I turn to face the old man. I can’t look into his eyes. They violently protrude from their sockets. It looks painful, the thought makes my eyes begin to water.

“Do you want to see?” The man asks.

“What could you possibly mean? I can see, I am looking at you right now,” I say, confused with his ominous tone.

“No. Do you want to see?”

The man stretches out his hands towards me. Hesitantly, I peer into the calloused palm of the man.

He is holding a small necklace. The emblem of a spiraling sun is printed on a square medallion. Bright light illuminates the metal, causing me to squint.

Power is emanating from the necklace. I am not in control, instead a helpless magnet drawn to the metal. I watch as my hand floats toward the displayed necklace.

My fingers clasp around the cool hardware.

It hurts, it burns, I am dying. My eyes squint shut as I endure the almost blinding pain.

I am alive.

When I open my eyes, the sun is yellow. The yellow began to weave its radiant tapestry across the sky.

The grass is green. The green ruled the emerald kingdom of trees and rustling leaves.

The necklace is gold. Gold was a regal hue that adorned the necklace, transforming the ordinary into a spectacle of opulence and grandeur.

What is this?

“Color,” the man smirks.

I would question whether or not he could read my thoughts, but I am distracted by the fluffy white clouds floating throughout the pale blue skies.

I am whole, I can see.

The world is beautiful. A painted masterpiece filled with vibrant colors made by God himself. My vision of monochrome transforms into a kaleidoscope of shades. My senses awaken to a symphony of brilliance. Each hue, once hidden, now dances before my eyes. In this technicolor revelation, the most ordinary objects become extraordinary. The world is reborn.

I am reborn.

Overwhelmed with emotion, thick wet tears rolled down my face.

I close my eyes and soak up the vibrating energy of truth.

I feel bony fingers grip the pendant held in my hand. The old man’s overgrown nails scratch my palm as he quickly snatches the necklace from me. I snap my eyes open to see the color drain from my world like wet ink on paper.

The world plunges into a shadowy abyss of desolation. What was once the brilliantly painted canvas of purpose, becomes the lifeless sketch of devastation. The landscape is robbed of its essence. The world feels hollow and incomplete.

I am incomplete.

“No! Wait, please!” I yell at the man, but I am too late.

I hear his chilling cackle as he disappears behind the gray bush. I run to catch him, but he is gone like he was only a thought. A figment of my imagination.

I fall to the ground and clutch at the grass, which I know to be a lush green. But, all I see is a deep shade of gray.

I ran back into the town to share the story of color. Humanity must know there is more to life than what we see.

But I am told my story is a tale, a fickle myth created by a bored man. I scream that I know the truth. They return stares of concern and disbelief.

I am called crazy. I am given medicine to mute my thoughts. I am left alone in my home as my family cannot handle my mindless tales of color.

I stare at the hues of black and white that fill my room. My vision is now a reminder that everything around me is not my true reality.

Or is it?

I must ask where reality aligns itself on the spectrum of objectivity.

I squint, run water in my eyes, smoke, anything to see the color again. But, all I see is black and white.

All we can see is black and white.

Creative Director: Sydney Burton Art Director: Miles Harewood Concept Director: Blakely Henn Concept Assistant: Elizabeth Kittle Photography: Miles Harewood Fashion Design: Elizabeth Walker Styling: Rebekah Long Beauty: Carly Judenberg, Juliana Hartley, Lauren Coughlin Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg, Kira Carruthers, Sarah Orji Writing: Stella Turner Copy Editing: Caroline Kostuch, Chanel Gaynor Casting: Jason Johnson Models: Marlaina Eastman, Sagar Patel, Ze Wang

KISMET’S BOX Kismet’s Box examines the idea of talismans in the context of our desire to influence fate. It explores how objects can hold power through representation or intention, as well as the notion that one’s belief in a talisman can influence their own mindset and behaviors. Talismans exist as artifacts of self-determination and as symbolic expressions of the innate human desire to control the course of fate, creating a connection between the physical object and metaphysical realm.

Playing God From the dawn of consciousness, humans have been tasked with answering a single question — what do we have control over, and by what means?

Top by Elizabeth Walker

At birth, each human soul is branded at its core with good luck or bad luck.

The events in our lives will follow this trajectory, predetermined by Fate. Our limited power and seeming lack of control over the greater events occurring around us at all points brews storms of jealousy, hate and uncertainty.

We reach out and anchor ourselves to what is fathomable. To what is concrete. The physical realm is what we best understand, so we try to bend more incomprehensible concepts into our preexisting molds. Thus, we often put the little remaining hope that we have into talismans. We imbue them with our dreams and aspirations, asking for luck on the day to day, believing that we are giving ourselves power through their presence.

We begin to think that we have outsmarted Fate, that we can bend our destinies and rule our futures as a sort of generous deity.

We become greedy and selfish, asking for more than we have been allotted.

Our talismans give us comfort, but rather than changing the events of our lives,

they simply change our outlook. Though we believe that we are on the come-up, our luck continues as it was predetermined by Fate.

We excuse the deficiencies of these talismans time and time again,

blaming them for each success or failure.

Whatever results, we say, was always within our power, always part

of our plan.

Every choice could make or break our very existence,

Cape by Elizabeth Walker

sending us down a path of destruction or glory. This energy that we waste instilling faith in the material drains us. As we become smaller and more depleted, our “lucky charms” grow larger and larger, absorbing our vitality more rapidly by the day. The facade of our power is revealed,

along with the strings that our possessions puppet us through.

Link by link, a chain is forged.

We are tied to the performance that is the mortal realm and the master that we have created in our false idols. It is only through our permission that we are cwwwwontrolled. Just power is derived from the consent of the governed.

Luck is but a fickle idea that shields us from the harsh face of Fate.

FATE IS UNKIND.

It is an idea hardly comprehensible to the mortal mind.

Taking the seemingly prettier path of luck only ties you down, chains you to the minute happenings of the material world.

If and when you choose to break this chain, to free yourself from the anchor and embrace the unknown with open arms, you can reclaim power over your life. Your path no longer rests on your shoulders, but lies in your own palm.

Your energy is your life force.

Do not drain it regretting, longing, coveting.

Instead, go forth into the world knowing that what you give is what you’ll get. Faith in the blank canvas of uncertainty will blaze your trail for you - just as it was intended.

Writing: Alex Keezer Copy Editing: Ruby Gagnon, Madeline Jankowski Layout: Kira Carruthers

An emerald green ribbon

A bent-up paper clip A grass-stained golf tee A snow globe with a chip

The tiniest dried daisy From the backyard of his flat His mother pressed it in a book Now he tucks it in his hat

A little red button A rusty pocketknife An old scratched thimble A picture of his wife

The object can be anything A rock or piece of string It really doesn’t matter Except the luck that it will bring

All the soldiers need something To get them through the fight To keep the plane from going down To remember bits of light

When the sky gets rough and dark And the night seems full of harm The men know they’ll see the morning

For they have their lucky charm

In a world where the only certainty is that nothing is qever certain, paradoxes reign free. As individuals, we have a deeply rooted need to find meaning in our existence, yet we look for it in a world that’s indifferent, inherently absurd and seemingly intentionless. The paradox of existence creates tension, as do many paradoxes, through their polarity of being both true and untrue. Their nonsensical nature plays into the absurdity of the human experience, in ways that are simultaneously frightening and awe-inspiring. We are invited to confront the incongruities and contradictions that uphold the limits of our understanding, as we realize and come to accept that we are living a paradox.

Creative Director: Sydney Burton Art Director: Miles Harewood Concept Director: Kiyoko Spencer Concept Assistant: Leynie Hester Photography: Grace Lang Fashion Design: Jessie Wong Styling: Vanessa Gissel, Kanan Parikh Beauty: Ashanti Meadows, Will Johnson, Greta Johnston, Lauren Coughlin Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg, Ansley Jordan, Peighton Senges Writing: Blake Witmer Copy Editing: Chanel Gaynor, Grace Maneein Casting: Esha Pamidi Models: Greta Johnston, Joz Courtney, Rana Ahmed, Samasu

CAT’S CRADLE

Cat’s Cradle is based on the unsettling realization that the human experience is absurd, due to being completely overwhelmed by infinite realities. Inspired by the classic childhood game “Cat’s Cradle,” the concept symbolizes the absurd potential variations in human life, as well as the anxiety and tension between us and the endless destinies or possibilities within the web of fate.

Top by Vanessa Gissel and Kanan Parikh

In the vast expansion of the universe, humanity grapples with the enigma of uncertainty, attempting to decipher the intricate web of cause and effect that governs our lives.

We are captivated by the paradoxical nature of existence: where certainty proves elusive, and the only constant is ever-present change.

It is within this labyrinth of ambiguity that we find ourselves, navigating the absurdity of living.

It is within this labyrinth of ambiguity that we find ourselves, navigating the absurdity of living.

Do single decisions have the power to unravel the fabric of reality, setting off a chain reaction of infinite possibilities?

There are a myriad ways in which humans try to rationalize or make sense of uncertainty. These attempts at understanding, manifest in the form of three distinct theories: the Domino Effect, the Butterfly Effect, and the Ripple Effect. Each theory offers a unique perspective on the intricate dance of causality that shapes our reality.

Pants and Corset Belt by Vanessa Gissel and Samasu

The Domino Effect, akin to a series of falling dominoes, illustrates the cumulative impact of sequential events.

A single decision, seemingly inconsequential at the outset, sets in motion a chain reaction of consequences, reverberating throughout the fabric of existence. In our quest for understanding, we witness how the smallest

of actions can catalyze profound shifts, reshaping the trajectory of our lives.

The Butterfly Effect illuminates the profound ramifications of miniscule choices.

Like a butterfly flapping its wings, insignificant decisions have the power to unleash a cascade of unforeseen events, altering the course of history. We are confronted with the boundless variations

of reality that stem from each moment of choice and the idea that something as insignificant as the flap of a butterfly’s wings can change fate.

The Ripple Effect emerges as a testament to the interconnectedness of all things. A pebble cast into the tranquil waters of the universe sends forth ripples that echo far beyond the point of impact.

Similarly, our actions resonate across time and space, shaping the lives of those around us in both profound and unforeseen ways.

It is a reminder of the subtle yet strong

influence we wield in

the tapestry of existence.

Amidst the intricacies of these theories lies a profound realization: the only certainty is uncertainty itself. Life is an ever-evolving tapestry, woven from the threads of chance and choice.

To be human is to embrace the inherent absurdity of our existence, to relinquish the illusion of control, and to find solace in the ebb and flow of change. To be human is to be a part of the intricate web of humanity.

We are all connected.

Top by Jessie Wong

As we navigate the labyrinth of uncertainty, let us not succumb to despair but rather embrace the beauty of the unknown.

For it is within the depths of uncertainty that we discover the true essence of our humanity.

In the face of the absurd, let us find courage, resilience, and above all, a profound sense of wonder.

WHAT IS V. WHAT YOU WANT TO BE: Dedication: This piece is dedicated to mothers with hopes and dreams of their own.

Michelle Wilson Brown is my mom. ‘Mom’ means more than the woman who gave birth to me. She is ‘Everything Everywhere All at Once’ for me: my best friend, caretaker, and guidance.

My mom knows me, not just what goes on around me, but what takes place behind my eyes.

My understanding of my mom runs as deep as the duration of our relationship, my entire life, but even so, I am 30 years in the dark. What makes the mother-child relationship unique is the closeness the two share despite the disparate knowledge they hold for one another.

My mom introduced herself to me as ‘Mommy’ before we ever locked eyes, and she devoted herself and her life to serving me. She consistently shows up as my mom; thus, it is hard for me to remember when I met Michelle.

Is it destiny if it does not belong to you?

Mothers’ destinies often become conflated with their children’s. Like many mothers, my mom receives more questions about others' lives than her own: More ‘How are the kids?’ and less ‘How are you?’ We limit questions about wants and desires like, ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ to children and unmarried, career-driven people. What about moms?

For a long time, my mom was the person with whom I shared my dreams and fears, not a person with her own dreams and fears. That is because we position moms as extensions of others rather than individuals.

I know Michelle was meant to be my mom, but she was not created solely to be a mom, and that is the identity question she is grappling with right now as she nears her midlife milestone: Her 50th birthday. Anytime we near a moment in life where all eyes are on us, we question if we are in a state in our lives where we want to be seen. When I expressed interest in holding space for my mom to outwardly reflect, she said, ‘Me having to face my dreams—it is going to be interesting,’ revealing a departure between her dreams and her reality.

When I asked my mom to join a conversation about fate with me, she did not jump at the opportunity, but instead, she agreed to do it for me in true motherly fashion. I responded, ‘Only answer what you are comfortable with, Mom.’ So below are the questions and answers she was comfortable having out loud.

When you are asked to think about your fate as it stands alone, not as it concerns anyone else, for the first time in a long time, discomfort, fear, and emotional weight are expected to show themselves. It took my mom a few sit-downs to receive, process, and respond to my questions because when reflecting on where you are, you are simultaneously reflecting on where you are not.

In conversation with Michelle.

Put yourself into the mindset of Michelle one month before undergraduate graduation. What did you envision for yourself at 50 years old? Upon reflecting on your life right now, do you have all of those things, are you prepared to have all of those things, or do you have more?

My conversation with my mom about fate recentered her. I sought to allow my mom to hold hands with the person who existed before motherhood and ask her life’s pressing questions.

She is several months away from turning 50 years old, and the strain between who she is, who she thought she would be and who she wants to be resides at the forefront of her mind. The misalignment between her reality and her ideal reality is an internal dialogue she constantly engages in.

A CONVERSATION ABOUT FATE WITH MY MOM

Writing: Madison Brown Copy Editing: Madeline Jankowski, Alex Keezer Layout: Peighton Senges

“I didn’t even think of myself at 50 years old, honestly. Looking back, I guess I figured I would be successful in some way. But I didn’t think about the details. Well, I guess things that I wanted at 50 years old evolved over time. Honestly, I don’t have all that I want for myself personally. I started off as a young attorney and later gave that up to support your dad’s career and raise you and your siblings. So, career-wise, it can be a little difficult seeing your peers accomplish amazing things, and I’m a ‘mom.’ However, I don't mean to minimize that title, as it’s the most important I will ever hold. When I was a month from graduation, I never dreamed I would have the family I do today. What your dad and I have created is literally beyond what I would dream. I didn’t know a family like ours could exist.

A family that deeply loves and likes each other. I don't know anyone like us. So, in that respect, I have more.”

Is being a mom enough? Being a moter is both freeing and constraining. Freeing because children take lives in unexpected directions, forcing parents to surrender control.

Constraining because mothers’ identities become tethered to their children’s: where you go, I follow. In both senses, mothers lose footing in their lives, and fate asks them to follow.

Fate altars our personal definitions of ‘fulfillment’ or what it means to have more. In one reality, fulfillment was career-related. In another reality, fulfillment was an abundance of love connecting her family. When we ask the universe or the higher power we believe in for ‘more,’ that more appears where it is destined to be, not where we call it to be.

What do you think your life would have looked like if you traveled an alternate path, or in other words, the path that you thought you wanted?

“If my path was different or took me in a different direction, I would not be here. I don’t know where it would have taken me. Perhaps I would be a partner at a law firm or the head of a non-profit, but would I have you or your siblings? Would I have your dad?

Even if I had you in my life, would we be as close? Would you know that you can come to me for anything? Would you have the comfort of me as your mom? If the answer is no, then I don’t want it. I do know that I’m still walking my path. I’m still growing and learning.

My path still has a long way to go.”

When you look at what you have done, does it outweigh what you want?

“Yes. Nothing could ever replace what I have now. A healthy, loving family of my husband and four children. The longer I live, the more I realize the importance of the intangibles— physical and health, stability, happiness, and the love of family. Would I also now (approaching 50 years old) want to have a fulfilling career and maybe a cool board appointment? I understand and accept the sacrifices I made. I do not believe I would have what I do currently if I gave my all to my career as a younger mother. What I want is minuscule compared to what I have.”

You are in the right place. But what if the right place makes you let a piece of yourself go? According to my mom, we long for a change in scenery while simultaneously wishing time could stop right where we are. I cannot help but think my mom does not feel whole without a career outside of managing our family. Once upon a time, she was a working mom, and now she is a mom without a hyphenate. She is a ‘mom,’ but her wants outside of motherhood are not silenced because she has more than she could have ever imagined. She is a person, and as people, we hope and pray that fate aligns with our wants, but ultimately, fate has the last say.

Do you believe in fate? Or do you believe you have control over your destiny?

“I believe that, ultimately, God is in control.

However, I believe God and the universe have given us the power to make decisions and guide our thoughts. So, I believe in fate, but I do believe we can make decisions in life that can affect how life happens to us.”

Every individual beholds their fate. I believe we are created with an unrealized destiny revealed only through submitting to fate. There are moments when it is clear where we are going and others that cast uncertainty. When one becomes a mother, one largely exists in a convoluted balance between clarity and doubt. My mom expressed having one foot grounded in what is and the other levitating in what she wants to be. Through her stories, my mom revealed the belief that fate is an accumulation of destinies. Destiny does not serve every part of you.

It picks and chooses where to give and take, and it ebbs and flows. My mom is destined to be an attorney, a devoted wife, and a mother. But those roles are not her fateful destinations because fate serves you and only you.

Creative Director: Sydney Burton Art Director: Miles Harewood Concept Director: Blakely Henn Concept Assistant: Lauren Roush Photography: Sean Corley Styling & Design: Elise Carruthers Beauty: Carly Judenberg, Caylin Payne Layout: Sarah Orji, Ansley Jordan, Kira Carruthers Writing: Hannah King Copy Editing: Blake Witmer, Alex Keezer Casting: Alice Young Models: Ryane Williams, Clarice Henry Production Assistant: Sagar Patel

AS

SO

ABOVE As Above, So Below explores the idea that what happens in a higher realm, also happens in a lower realm. The expression “as above, so below” identifies that there is a symmetry between the macrocosm and the microcosm, indicating that patterns, structures, and dynamics observed in one dimension are inherently mirrored or reflected in another. Through our experiences, we discover there is always a correspondence between the laws and phenomena of different planes of existence.

BELOW

STILL HERE I stood in my room on the left side of the Jack and Jill bathroom on May 26, 2020, and heard the words “She has passed.” I did not know how to feel but knew a piece of my soul had left this world.

The essence of sweetness, gentleness, and compassion all wrapped up into one woman:

She was perfection in human form: too good for this earth.

She used to say to me

“Ma petite tête de chou,” meaning “my little cabbage head.” A French term of endearment meant for those you love.

As a child, I never truly understood the meaning and depth of this phrase, but now I long to hear her say those words to me once again. Somedays this phrase comes to me in a spontaneous thought, and I can almost hear it as though she is sitting next to me still.

Mary Geary Breslin.

She was the most immaculate mix of loving kindness and empathy, with a hint of spunk and sarcasm.

My Mimi.

A piece of my soul left me that day, yet she never truly left me.

She speaks to me from above, sending messages down below.

Skirts by Elise Carruthers

MIMI,

Just last week, when I felt an unbearable sadness and felt as though the world was against me, you spoke to me.

I once heard that if you look into the sky and see the clouds creating

You

an X shape, it means that an angel is near and thinking about you.

It’s a habit of mine: looking into the

appeared on the ground in the form of a penny.

It’s funny how you are able to do that, how you know to come to me at the

sky.

most perfect times when

to see you and know you’re near.

I find pennies everywhere, and I know they are a sign that you are near me.

You, and your pennies,

I look up

I need you most.

But it isn’t always the clouds in the sky that let me know you are still present down below,

remind me that there is life after “the below,” and that one day we will

on this simple earth.

meet again in “the above.”

But it is through these dreams I am reassured that on the day you passed, you never truly went away.

I am reminded of the sorrowful, yet true, fact that we are no longer in the same realm.

You come to me in dreams. We sit and talk, and we laugh as though in a few seconds I will not be ripped away from you once again. Every time my eyes open after we meet in my dreams, and I regain awareness,

You simply ascended above, leaving me down below to continue your legacy and love others as you once taught me.

I see the way you communicate with me from above, reminding me there is life beyond this mere Earth.

White Collar Top by Elise Carruthers

You speak to me through the songs on the radio

and the sweet melodies we used to sing together in your living room as you made dinner.

Although we are a world apart, I know you are still here.

We are tethered together by love, crossing dimensions;

above and below.

Below, I feel your presence every day, whether alone or with those who loved and knew you. You inspire me to be the best version of myself.

I thank you for still loving me

from above,

and reminding me that I am enough

Ta petite tête de chou, Hannah

down below.

A mistake in the creation of our worlds and an effect of the ever-evolving ecosystems.

Tied together by a force between dimensions are two separate bodies, connected by two identical souls.

One half to a sphere, a piece of a puzzle, and a stepping stone in the path between universes.

Neutrally existing for another, and hardly existing for themselves.

Hearts that beat in unison, feeling at the expense of the other.

Stripped of all Individuality, simply living to exist and not existing to live.

Writing: Ruby Gagnon Copy Editing: Caroline Kostuch, Blake Witmer Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg

Their minds, though singular and complex, are a map for the other to complete their journey.

Haunted by foreign decisions, the passions that fuel their souls edge towards nonexistence.

The joys of life are pushed aside, silenced out by a never-ending stream of thoughts and unanswered questions.

An existential perspective on living raised by the complexity of their differences.

Every second that passes is a reminder that someone, somewhere, knows exactly what they’re thinking.

For no thought is truly individual when you are tied to another soul.

SUFFERANCE’S SPLENDOR

Creative Director: Sydney Burton Art Director: Miles Harewood Concept Director: Kiyoko Spencer Concept Assistant: Esha Pamidi Photography: Shelby Cuenca Styling & Design: Mya Williams, Rebecca Braxley Beauty: Will Johnson, Emma Johnson, Juliana Hartley Layout: Sydney Burton, Peighton Senges, Sarah Orji Writing: Catherine Grace Sigman Copy Editing: Alex Keezer, Ruby Gagnon Casting: Esha Pamidi Models: Arika Chiluvuri, Sydney Belcher, Maria Trujillo

Suffferance’s Splendor understands that the human experience is inherently absurd, and accepts the insanity rather than fighting it.

The more we learn about our universe, the more we learn how much we know nothing, which at first was frightening, but is now our reason for joyful absurdity. We have embraced the chaos and we are living alongside it, not just in peace, but in splendor.

GATEKEEPING HEAVEN

“What is death, Adam?” “…Never heard of it.”

Knowledge has never belonged to us.

True, we may cling to wisps of it, but we cannot possess it forever. Countless Libraries of Alexandria couldn’t catalog the wisdom we have driven ourselves mad to find. In all our attempts to bottle understanding, we gamble with the potential suffering it brings.

The pursuit of knowledge is not a riskless business, either. For millennia, people have borne brutal damnation for their search. To seek is to be human, which is punishable by certain death. The descent into humanity is marked by a life of pain, eventually to be snuffed out.

In the synesthetic throes of youth, this is why we covet the secret knowledge that adults possess, always reaching, always longing for more. Yet, in the doldrums of adulthood, we yearn for the innocence of childhood naïveté. Since the dawn of mankind, the search for knowledge has marked our downfall.

The Garden came with only one warning. Do not touch the Forbidden Fruit, or you will die.

Like an ember, the temptation to know more grew into a timid flame that could be stoked into an inferno with a single hiss.

They wanted to know what it meant to die so badly that they would give their lives for it.

KNOWLEDGE HAS BEEN OUR UNDOING

Knowledge has been our undoing since the nascence of humanity, which unironically occurred in tandem with the nascence of human screw-ups. As binary opposition would dictate, this omniscience or lack thereof is what differentiates humanity and divinity.

Not even the greatest minds, technological advances, and blind stabs into the curtain of modernity will ever be all-knowing.

To strive for omniscience is a Sisyphean battle in which we are sentenced to grapple with a snowballing boulder, constantly beaten back by the irrationality of the uphill climb.

As a consequence of his quest for answers and striving too close to the gods, Sisyphus is forced to roll the boulder against gravity for all of eternity. All the while, it accumulates enlightenment, growing heavier and heavier with each rotation.

“This is the Tree of Knowledge,” the serpent gibed. “Eat from it. You will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

The pursuit would kill them, but what does a death sentence mean in eternal paradise?

There is an incomprehensibility to punishments beyond your scope of understanding.

Pants by Mya Williams

Thus, they ate the Forbidden Fruit.

We

all

eat

the

fruit.

Skirt by Rebecca Braxley

Daily, we search out knowledge we’re better off without, because as life bloomed in Eve and death loomed inevitably behind, the pursuit of knowledge had taken insidious roots in the cradle of humankind.

WE ALL EAT THE FRUIT Childbirth will bring pain, God told them. Populate the Earth, God told them.

So Adam and Eve brought forth the Earth’s first brothers, who had plenty of knowledge about how to get into brotherly fights, but had never learned about how to end them.

Cain only struck him once before he fell.

“Wake up,” he whimpered in Abel’s ear. His long hair, dampening with blood, covered his face but he should be able to hear him, shouldn’t he? He jostled his limp shoulder with increasing vigor. “Wake up. Wake up.

Don’t tell Mom.”

Adam and Eve may have been the first humans, but Abel was the first to fulfill his humanity. Now, they knew what it meant to die.

There is one redeeming quality to this distinctly human ignorance. With pain comes pleasure. With Heaven’s exile comes the bacchanalia of earthly shackles, the joy of discovery, the beauty of creation, and the richness of human experience. There is a certain exhilaration in the release. When laboring in perpetuity becomes absurd, simply surrender the boulder.

Relinquish yourself to resplendence.

Amidst the cacophony of knowledge’s pursuit, here exists the sanctuary, an opulent oasis where the burdens of enlightenment are shed, and the splendor of simplicity reigns supreme. Ignorance is no longer merely a void. Intoxicated by the heady elixir of ignorance’s allure, they revel in its lavish embrace.

Pay no mind if Hell awaits, they’re dancing outside Heaven’s gates.

Corset and Skirt by Mya Williams

My alarm clock sounds, the same rippling chime that wakes me each morning.

What I would do to have a day of peace, of calm without interruption.

Water splashes on my face, my reflection stares back at me in the mirror

Today is poles apart from yesterday, And tomorrow will bring complexities of its own.

When will I be able to catch my breath?

Every day, an epiphany repeats, a revelation that my future is vastly unknown.

These thoughts are then met with fear that follows me as time passes on.

Questions remain unanswered, stuck in the air, waiting to come down.

I try to take control, predict what is next, But I drown in overwhelmingness.

When will I be able to catch my breath?

The twists and turns, coming and going–impromptu, abruptly.

No time to react No time to adapt No time to prepare.

Only time to ruminate on the avoidance of fate’s circumstances.

Waiting until I can dance again, with dreams so high, I dread, I panic– I await with my eyes tightly closed –for what is next, I do not know.

Writing: Caroline Kostuch Copy Editing: Alex Keezer, Grace Maneein Layout: Sarah Orji

I can’t catch my breath.

Pulling my eyes open, the sun pierces through, glimmering ever so kindly, Surrendering to the pending possibilities, I inhale

My alarm clock sounds, the same rippling chime that wakes me each morning.

What will this day bring me?

Unsure of the answer today, just as yesterday

But here, I am learning it is normal, not to be a fortune teller To take the hours as they come, to wonder, to daydream –to hope

Peaking around the corner, I look back on the miles I have conquered And look ahead with lust for what is to arrive

Every day, an epiphany repeats, a revelation that my future is vastly unknown.

But how lucky am I? To live in a world demanding to be explored

CELEBRATION OF

With roads begging to be rolled upon and shoes made to be worn

Champagne splatters and confetti shimmers, my satin dress glides across the room Embracement of mystery is one way to describe it, however

“celebration of chaos,"my newfound I prefer

Pondering what melody may catch my ear today, “From a dream, I’m wakin’ up” Carrying me out the door, with lust for what is to arrive

daily jubilation

For the marvelous absurdity we call life, carpe diem!

I exhale.

As I raise my glass for a toast and realize everyone has left, I feel like a fool in this reality.

And I can’t catch my breath.

The twists and turns, coming and going –impromptu, shameless

I float out of bed, humming the song that played at the café yesterday

Though some ideals are free from obscurity in the human eye, fate and destiny are not. Their incalculable nature warps our reality, making it difficult to discern truth or foresee that which is yet to come. Twists of fate create pockets of surrealism that are often incomprehensible, defying our desire for clear expression.

Overlapping realities make us question our mind’s capacity for fabrication, and fate’s intangibility shifts our idea of what we know. Familiarity plays a fool in the illusion of sense created by fate, while we strive for lucidity in the face of nonsense.

TAPESTRY

Creative Director: Sydney Burton Art Director: Miles Harewood Concept Director: Cayce Sherer Concept Assistant: Caragan Cherry Photography: Sagar Patel, Caitlin Cho Fashion Design: Liam Scott Styling: Julianne Lopez Beauty: Carly Judenberg, Juliana Hartley Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg, Ansley Jordan, Sarah Orji Writing: Grace Maneein Copy Editing: Ruby Gagnon, Madeline Jankowski Casting: Ashanti Meadows Model: Jeannette Tsai

Tapestry of Sentience dances with the idea of collective consciousness and déjà vu/déjà (already seen/already dreamed), emphasizing the interconnectedness of human nature and the notion that no experience is fully original. It plays on the idea of experiencing something previously experienced, involving a strong sense of familiarity without exactly being identifiable as to why.

OF SENTIENCE

Into Your Looking Glass

Mom, when did you realize that you were going to die?

The first time you listened to water boil?

After you felt the boiled water cool?

Or was it when you dropped the kettle the other day, your once strong grip now feeble?

I used to wonder about the purpose of life. Now, I know that there is no purpose.

Just effort and entropy. In this world, the natural order and “Darwinism” and “Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs” and latestage capitalism and physical science and whatever else dictate and continue to dictate one thing: Homo sapiens are animals, and their first instinct is to survive.

Their second instinct is to build a home: literally, figuratively, metaphorically.

Whatever that entails.

Dress by Liam Scott

You’re always so

FORGETFUL.

You used to be so forgetful.

Oh, you are forgetful.

You’re so forgetful that you forget that you used to forget

things.

You’ve forgotten things— all my life,

all the time.

You stumble over words that should’ve stopped feeling foreign after decades of speaking them.

But the first time you fucked up your perfectly developed years-in-the-making, extra crispy and

The

FIRST time.

&

savory breakfast green onion pancakes, my world stopped spinning.

then the Law of Diminishing Marginal Returns eventually

took over.

axis.

And rolled off its

Not literally, but that’s how

SECOND

Which became the time, which became the third time, the nth time,

extra extra flakey

obviously,

I felt.

Eventually, my heart learned to stop hurting as I grew accustomed to my new norm of barely-edible green onion pancakes.

Which would probably be around the time I stopped caring.

About maybe everything.

If you could ask me what color the sky is, I would’ve said,

“RED.” My bright and happy future is tinged with red, redshifting away, slipping through my fingers.

All I see are beginnings and endings, supernovas waiting to happen.

I look up to the sky, the Heavens, and pray for the first time ever, to Whoever.

DEAR God or 天 (Tian) or Buddha or whoever else you may be.

If you even exist at all, hear my plea: Please ease Mom’s pain and suffering.

Don’t know, don’t care,

She’s becoming cold, hard and stiff. don’t wish to find out, don’t want this part to require effort too.

Here’s my attempt at faith, from a Ph.D. candidate with a concentration in metaphysics.

She’s not happy. I can’t remember the last time she smiled, and I try so hard to make her happy.

Please, make her healthy and safe and well again.

Please, please, please.

I’m begging

YOU.

If you even exist at all.

Maybe I turned to science and became a metaphysicist with the intention of disproving the concept of souls.

But then I started trying to conceptually disprove the concept of concepts.

Which only made the hollowness worse, this realization that

H. sapiens are just sentient beings of

STARDUST.

The one Bible verse I have never questioned: “From dust we come, into dust we return.”

Like 小八 remember him?

And your beloved persimmon trees, and the old Camry we used to have?

Silly me, of course you don’t.

But I’ll keep on obsessing anyway, and I’ll do it the way alchemists used to obsess over the makings of the Sorcerer’s Stone:

FANATICALLY.

In between your hospital visits, herbal and traditional and nontraditional medicinal appointments galore, I search for remnants of the person you once were.

And watch as you

ENTROPY.

One night, I peered into your looking glass and looked for me. Blood wells up in the corners of my eyes and succumb to gravity, heavy droplets rolling down my hollowed cheeks.

I touch them, look at my fingertips.

All ten of them are hard and cracked.

They split; they burst—trickling down the sides of my arms, carving a path toward my heart.

And then I started to wonder if I was entropying too.

When the time felt near, there was so much that there was nothing left to say. So we locked eyes and held hands, tried to smile and put on brave faces. A concerted effort, made on behalf of both parties to console —but

WHOM?

Your flame was already so weak, so weary.

One minute, you were my mom.

Next thing I know, I’m holding hands with a body, hooked up to machines to keep the lungs flowing, the heart pumping.

Without whatever made you sentient, you were just carbon, waiting to decompose.

“Do we truly possess original human experiences, or are they merely illusions in the grand tapestry of sentience?”

This topic has fascinated philosophers, scientists, and artists for centuries; it can be difficult to grasp since we tend to believe everything we experience and witness is an objective truth. To understand the complexities of the human experience, we must first agree that no two individuals will perceive reality in parallel. Within this one room, filled with a few hundred people all listening to the same music, viewing the same band, and feeling the same stimuli, we could get hundreds of different perspectives. It is a fundamental truth; since birth, we’ve been shaped by personal history, cognitive biases, and cultural influence.

Our personal perception of the world, and how we interact with it, relies on who we are, where we’ve been, and what has touched us.

Engulfed within a lively crowd, two girls stand side by side, feeling the rhythm of music pulsate. It’s a Saturday night out, and while one feels alive as the vibrant beams of pink and green bounce around the room, the other notices the subtleties of shadows, the intensity of the echoes ringing in her ears, and a sense of anxiety creeping in.

Within this seemingly simple snapshot, we witness one of the most profound questions of our existence: do we truly possess original human experiences, or are they merely illusions in the grand tapestry of sentience?

“Within this one room, filled with a few hundred people all listening to the same music, viewing the same band, and feeling the same stimuli, we could get hundreds of different perspectives.”

As intelligent beings, we are strongly influenced by context. Think about how much we read into body language and tone. For example, the ridiculous difference we notice when a text ends with a period. As we experience any regular event—say the brightness of the sun or the color of the deep blue sky—our brain engages in a perpetual dance of prediction and correction. Referencing past experiences filed away, our consciousness remixes with the context of the current situation at hand to craft our subjective reality. This controlled simulation remains tethered to reality, yet it will never be truly identical to it. This concept is complicated further when we take into account our sensory organs only offer a glimpse into the vast spectrum of reality—there are colors we can’t see, and frequencies we cannot hear, and we are incapable of even conceptualizing the possibility of them.

How can we judge what reality even is, when we ourselves have barely scratched the surface?

This dreamscape serves as a testament to the universality of human experience. Within our dreams, we are free to do, say, see, and hear whatever we want. Our imaginations run wild, yet remain under the influence of our past, our fears, and, ironically, our reality. Think of the common jolt into wakefulness after plummeting into nothingness, the horror of frantically running your tongue across your teeth after feeling them crumble away, or the sigh of relief as you realize the endless chase was just a dream.

“Our imaginations run wild, yet remain under the influence of our past, our fears, and, ironically, our reality.”

At their core, these dreams evoke primal sentiments: fear, powerlessness, and vulnerability. Each emotion acts as a thread, weaving us closer in our human experience. Even as awareness settles into the waking world, the memory of the fall, chase, or tooth loss lingers—a testament to the enduring power of the subconscious over our perception of reality.

Writing: Nicole Moreno Copy Editing: Grace Maneein, Chanel Gaynor Layout: Ansley Jordan

But as we revisit those two strangers in our initial scene, we are reminded that beneath the veneer of conflicting perceptions lies a stronger link of emotional resonance.

Excitement, anxiety, love, and longing transcend the boundaries of individual experience, binding us in the common threads of humanity. In embracing the paradox of originality and illusion, we glimpse the ineffable beauty of the human condition and embrace the kaleidoscope of perspectives that enrich our collective consciousness.

As we surrender to the tapestry of sentience, we discover the essence of what it means to be

truly alive.

Weaving a Tapestry of Human Experience

Consciousness:

Encountering a new experience, yet feeling you’ve been there before, or receiving inexplicable good news out of nowhere.

It really could be that there are truly stronger forces than us at play, tugging us along like puppets on a string, as we perform the intricate dance of life.

Threads of

Navigating this labyrinth of perception, human experience, and reality, we encounter the nebulous realm of superstition— characterized by mystery and intuition.

Deja vu, the inexplicable sense of familiarity, whispers of unseen forces at play; blurring the line between coincidence and destiny. Karma, the cosmic judge of moral deeds, offers comfort in the notion that our actions echo through the universal fabric of existence.

Creative Director: Sydney Burton Art Director: Miles Harewood Concept Director: Blakely Henn Concept Assistant: Maryjane Richard Photography: Sandy Ha Styling: Sophia Bradley, Eleanor Cleveland, Ze Wang Beauty: Emma Johnson, Greta Johnston, Caylin Payne, Juliana Hartley Layout: Sydney Burton, Peighton Senges, Nastasia Rozenberg Writing: Chanel Gaynor Copy Editing: Madeline Jankowski, Blake Witmer Casting: Jason Johnson Models: Racquel Lynch, Zoie Daughtry, Carly Judenberg, Isabella Klug, Adam Starks Production Assistant: Sagar Patel Ouroboros, an ancient symbol depicting a serpent eating its own tail to form a circle or infinity sign, is often linked to ideas of immortality or eternal life. Conceptually, Ouorboros addresses the cyclical nature of existence and how reality both gives and takes, infinitely. Death and rebirth are both abundant in a world that does not stop for either.

THE ETERNAL LABYRINTH

When Aeturn was a young man, he stumbled upon the lush landscape of the labyrinth. He began to pick the golden flowers growing from the bushes, eager to bring them back to his village. The town would be envious of the fortune he had no intention of sharing.

A snake emerged from the emerald shrubs and watched Aeturn pick flower after flower, mindlessly shoving the petals into his satchel.

“These petals must be earned through the right of the labyrinth. A greedy man is never a full one,” warned the snake.

Aeturn ignored the scaled serpent and continued to pluck the soft golden petals.

Until one crumbled into gray dust in the palm of his hand.

He looked up to see that the flowers had vanished from the bush, and his satchel was filled with nothing but dirt and wilting stems.

Aeturn points a wicked finger at the snake.

“You did this! Give me back my gold,” Aeturn yelled.

“The flowers never belonged to you,” the snake responded.

Aeturn lunged at the snake, but it was too quick and disappeared behind the foliage.

After only a moment, its head slowly emerged from the leaves once again.

“Would you rather the golden petals or a life filled with immortality?” The snake asked.

Aeturn debated his options. For petals may bring him riches, but immortality would make him untouchable.

“Immortality. I want to be a god,” Aeturn said definitively.

The snake smirked and nodded at the man.

Aeturn is unsure if anything has changed, but the snake has dissipated into the crisp Spring air. It was as if the slithering ophidian was just a figment of his imagination.

Aeturn returned to his village and boastfully tells the tale of earning his endless life. He drank from glass bottles of burning liquor and dived from the peaks of the highest cliffs.

People regard him to be a God, worshiping his fearless nature.

But what is a God without his followers?

As time passes, Aeturn remains the same. But his people age and complete their circle of life Lonely, Aeturn returned to the labyrinth.

The leaves of the bushes are a dull green.

It is missing the vibrance of the once glittering flowers that drew Aeturn to the foliage. The stone of the arch chipping away.

The wind whispered its challenge. Its voice slithered down his back, a reminder of the snake he met many years ago.

Aeturn’s ears perk at the message.

He must complete the labyrinth to bring back his mortality.Arrogantly, Aeturn ran through the maze.

He whisked through the twists and turns, ignoring the murmuring suggestions of the nature that surrounds him. Instead, he arrogantly trusted what he believes to be his intuition.

The wind whispered its challenge. Its voice slithered down his back, a reminder of the snake he met many years ago.

Aeturn’s ears perk at the message.

He must complete the labyrinth to bring back his mortality.

Arrogantly, Aeturn ran through the maze.

He whisked through the twists and turns, ignoring the murmuring suggestions of the nature that surrounds him.

Instead, he arrogantly trusted what he believes to be his intuition. Left, right, right He is spit back out where he started.

Frustrated, he tries again.

And again.

And again.

He tried until he was coated in sweat illuminated by the night sky. He must return to his lonely home, for he could no longer see within the darkness.

But did Aeturn ever truly see the maze if he was not looking?

Not listening?

Aeturn alone in his room, cursed the maze. For how is a trail, mightier than a God. He tried to forget about the winding turns of the labyrinth. However, in his dreams, he remembered the lush green leaves sprinkled with golden flowers from his first visit.

Years passed, and Aeturn continued his life of adventure. Quickly, he realized that he can no longer impress himself with grandeur.

He had seen it all.

But, he had not seen the end of the labyrinth.

He returned to the aging labyrinth.

The leaves of the bushes have fallen to the ground. The stone arch is barely held together by its bones.

Aeturn stands under the crumbling arch looking towards the elaborate labyrinth. The sun casts an eerie shadow from the bushes. The harsh wind taunts Aeturn, whispering doubtful phrases to the nervous man.

With a hesitant step forward, he begins the challenge of the maze.

Ummi always loved the daylight. Mornings growing up began with al shams’ streaming through my bedroom windows, every curtain in our home staying open daily to let the natural rays glow. Very few lamps rested in our house, only needed to bring light when night took over.

I can’t help but think she would be disappointed with how I’m living, sheltered in darkness. There’s a reason Ummi was known as al shams’, afterall. The constant gloom makes it easier to ignore the fact that my life now continues without her, and a life without Ummi is a life absent of light.

“Ya amar?”

A familiar voice shifts my focus from my bedroom wall to the petite woman standing in my doorway. Teta waits for me to jump and rush towards her embrace, but there is no energy left for me to move. Ever since Ummi, I’ve felt a burdensome stone weighing my body down, though it’s nothing in comparison to the heaviness in my heart. She moves toward me and sits at the edge of my bed, softly placing her tea cup on my bedside table. Only she would use the fine china she and Jaddi received at their wedding on a daily basis. She holds the other cup towards me, motioning for me to drink.

She looks me up and down, a disapproving look painted on her face. Kun dayiman sayidatan, hataa law lam yakun hunak ‘ahad yuraqibuka, she has always told me. Always be a lady, even if no one is watching. My state was the opposite of her expectations, yet instead of the lecture I am expecting, Teta surprises me with a question.

“Have I ever told you the story of how Jaddi and I met?”

I take another small sip from the fine china and slightly shake my head. The motion was enough for her to continue.

I felt the deepest loss I could have ever imagined. The only sanctuary I had ever known was gone. My family was displaced with everyone else, with nowhere to go from there. We were stuck, stagnant, trapped in this place with no one to turn to.

That is, until Jaddi saved me from it all.

It was a small enough village where I knew who he was. I think every girl my age did, he was known as quite the flirt. But he was four years older than me, and I wasn’t the prettiest or most outgoing girl. In my mind, there was no possibility of him noticing me, and if it wasn’t for the storm, I don’t know if he ever would have.

“As you know, my family’s roots stem from Aswan. A month after I turned eighteen, a flood destroyed our village. The house I was raised in was swept up in a current, dismantling it piece by piece until I recognized nothing. Every door, window, room I had known, was gone before my very eyes. There was nothing left, nothing to re-use or remember. It disappeared quicker than I could take a picture to reminisce.

You see, even the most dangerous storms that destroy what we love can still give while they take. Your Umm is gone, aywa, and I pray there will never be a stronger battle for you to fight than this one. But you, ya amar, you can survive anything. No monstrous flood can take away your light. That is why I call you as I do. Your Umm was always my al shams’, but ya amar, you are able to shine even brighter. You are steadfast, day and night, and even when al shams’ hides away in the darkness, your rays never dull.”

Nujum al-Sama

Writing: Ann Harper Covington Copy Editing: Chanel Gaynor, Ruby Gagnon Layout: Sydney Burton

Teta reaches toward my bedside table and pulls a thin gold band with a tiny aureate water lily resting on the center, handing it towards me. I fiddle with it in my fingers, appreciating the exquisite detail, bringing my mind back to the last time I saw it worn, weeks before, when life revolved around a hospital room, day-in, day-out.

I would sit by Ummi’s side for as long as she would let me, holding her soft hands and twisting the ring on her pinky, probably to distract myself from the despair blooming in the room. Sometimes, quiet sobs were unable to be held back, and I would let her hold my face and wipe away each tear.

“You will never have to live without me,” she would tell me as she held my face in her palm. “When my time comes, whenever that may be, I’m certain my soul will rise up towards the sky. As long as al shams’ shines, I will never be too far away from you.” She shifted her body to one side of the bed and motioned for me to join her. “I’ll be there, ya hub, lighting your mornings. I will be as steadfast as al shams’ each day.”

Teta’s palm rests on my arm, taking my mind away from the memory and towards her face, tears forming below my lashes.

“Ummi’s ring?”

She gives my arm a calming squeeze, nodding and granting me a reassuring smile. She outstretches her hand towards me, and the burdensome stone weighing on me suddenly felt light enough for me to move my legs and rise from my bed. We step towards the windows covered by draping curtains that have transformed my room into a dark cave. Teta, still holding my hand, guides me to grab the inner side of one curtain.

“You, ya amar, can be your own Nujum al-Sama. There is no need for guidance from alnujim when you can light the way for yourself.” She lets go of my hand to grab the opposite curtain, allowing me to slip Ummi’s ring on my pinky. “La mazid min alzalam, ya amar.” No more darkness, my moon. Together, we pull apart the blankets until sunlight streams into my room, the radiating glow highlighting a teary gleam in Teta’s eyes.

I place an arm around her and rest my head on her shoulder, twisting the ring side to side on my finger. “Ahebbak, Teta.”

As steadfast as al shams’, Ummi promised. With Teta’s and my gaze locked on the sky, I know she intends to keep it.

It was a week after our homes were destroyed. I was trying to do something, anything, to give our destroyed land a new wave of life. Baba was one of the lucky ones, who still had a small amount of money pocketed despite the destruction. While he was sleeping, I snuck away a small sum. I paid an old neighbor a minute amount in exchange for some seeds, and gathered my younger siblings down to the now still river surrounding what once laid as our village. We sat, digging through the damp soil to bury the seeds until more of our people’s children joined to help. By the next hour, what would become a garden of blue water lilies were planted around the bay. I was surrounded by twenty young children, playing and splashing in the water.

Jaddi, like the other adults, noticed the noise and laughter from the children. When he walked towards me, I was prepared for him to tell me to gather the children and return to our parents. Although I didn’t feel like one, I expected him to treat me like a child. Instead, he sat down beside me on the river’s edge and asked me how I managed to make the children smile.

He claimed he had only seen frowns and tears for a week, and despite his efforts, he wasn’t able to cheer them up. How did you do it, he asked me. I remember staring up at him and smiling for what felt like the first time. Plant a seed and see, I responded, gently opening his hand and dropping a seed in the center of his palm. Once his seed was planted in the ground, we sat together side-by-side. And we stayed like this, even once the children returned to their families and the sun had set. It wasn’t until Baba came to retrieve me that Jaddi answered his own question. I know why the children were smiling, he said.

How could anyone not smile when they’re spending time with you?

We were tied together from that point like the water lilies and the river, only separated when my parents forcibly moved me.

They didn’t like that he was older. They didn’t like the fact he didn’t have a home to provide for me. They didn’t think he was enough, but he was everything and more than what I could have ever imagined for myself. If it wasn’t for the detrimental flood, or my home being destroyed with my past, I would have never found Jaddi. Your sweet Umm would have never been born. You would have never existed.