Strike Magazine Gainesville Issue 06

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ANNIE ORTEGA

CREATIVE DIRECTOR ERIN HU

EXTERNAL AFFAIRS DIRECTOR MADDY WHALEN

DESTIN CREATIVE Assistant Creative Director Matt Hamburg Art Director Kate McNamara Art Assistants Bailey Berhannan Dina Coletti Lillian Colon Mariah Porto Adrian Regalado Beauty Director Emma Heese Beauty Assistants Tamar Abrahami Alyssa Bretan Julia Chaplin Jamie Crompton Olivia Gallagher Katie Geremia Kaiya-rai Sarmenta Hair Stylists Gabi Perez Mackenzie Potts Aaron Sarner Bookings Directors Silvana Hanrahan Katherine Ovadia Bookings Assistants Sammy Dratch Alexi Stoupas Castings Directors Mia Alvarez Kylie Margolesky Castings Assistants Tara Gaines Carly Martinez Gabi Purcell Skylar Sabol

Content Team Orange Directors Ashley Novello Nicole Poplewko Content Assistants Gabriela Donati Meg Levine Jacob Wall Caroline Webb Content Team Blue Directors Tanner Crews Kaureen Randhawa Content Assistants Lindsay Ayers Farah Contractor Laurie Mullowney Jordan Witt Styling Team Orange Director Karis Perusek Styling Assistants Tanner Crews Maggie Dungey Liv Vitale Madison Wunderlich Styling Team Blue Director Tajay Coote Styling Assistants Adam Berman Eva Duran Shrinidhi Kumar Photographers Patrick Amistoso Brieanna Andrews Samy Asfoor Anna Carrington Paige Davis Allison Epstein Stephanie Garcia Jared Neikirk Malyna Reed Ryan Rivas Johann Vazquez

Film Director Megan Osorio Film Production Directors Thomas Le Ryan Rivas Film Assistants Samy Asfoor Lily Huerkamp Haley Petitt Sofia Seidel

EDITORIAL

Assistant Editor-in-Chief Hannah Shelton Blog Directors AJ Bafer Jacob McLean Editors Madison Chestang Charlotte Dwyer Web/Social Coordinator Jolie Freedman Writers Grace Benneyworth Daniella Conde Samantha Inselberg Kate Corcoran Rylee McIver Caroline Webb Katrina White

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ATION EXTERNAL Assistant External Director Brynn Fantuzzi Finance Directors Kate Smith Valeria Vila Finance Assistants Mahsa Iranipour Jessica Kennedy Syuzanna Kocharyan Kait Swan Marketing Directors Valeriya Antonshchuk Alexis Lagana Marketing Assistants Jaileth Acosta Emma Donato Brittany Grice Kelly Henning Sarah Kendall Isabella Teke Alyssa Velez Merchandise Directors Ekaterina Ivanova Gia Simonetti Merchandise Assistants Amelia Filipczak Renni Korniloff Madeline Wise

Public Relations Directors Sophia Lia Cochran Lauren Schinnow Public Relations Assistants Lauren Casole Tori Grossman Andrea Guillen Theodora Oatmeyer Anna Kate Womack Mia Zaldivar Sales Directors Anya Benitez Luke Gidus Sales Assistants Kendra Cashion Gabrielle Gangler Natalie Lipcon Kate Pilgrim Sabrina Rivera Gabrielle Sumkin Paris Vanacore Social Media Directors Emily Patton Sarah Sheerer Social Media Assistants Tayler Ford Andreanna Hardy Ilana Hill Alyssa Rives de Lavaysse Kassandra Rodriguez Katherine Signori

Brand Ambassador Director Emily Ellingsen Brand Ambassador Director Assistants Mandy Musleh Debbie Siegel Brand Ambassadors Rasee Bhoola Preslie Brown Clayton Bush Katy Curran Landon Decker Tess Foels Lexi Horowitz Jamie Jerchower Eva Kamp Alyssa Katz Caroline Lewis Isabella Marzban Chloe Mazloum Myanh Nguyen Anna Padgett Juanita Prieto Lindsey Robison Sophia Schwartz Isabelle Soto Sofia Vazquez Mary Elizabeth Williams Sarah Zafar Huntleigh Zhang

I

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ABOUT STRIKE MAGAZINE Strike Magazine embodies the idea that we all are striking in our own way. Gainesville is formed by a student body of individuals who are immensely striking in their own ways, and Strike Magazine highlights these unique qualities. Through our diversity, varied life experiences and interests, we each bring refreshing perspectives and visions to the world and to each other. Strike Magazine values the human experience, and we aim to create a magazine that embodies the defining attributes of all people and yields a deep appreciation for fashion, art and pop culture.

Strike Magazine in Gainesville, FL, was founded in March 2018 as the first extension of the Tallahassee publication. Since then, here in Gainesville we have grown to a staff of over 150 students. This year, we experienced our first change in leadership. Strike Magazine has also expanded to 10 additional campuses in the US. Strike serves as a creative outlet and source of professional experience for our driven, ambitious staff. We take pride in striking Gainesville as the first student-led publication of our kind.

We would like to thank our team for their consistent passion, creativity and support. We are endlessly inspired by the distinct beauty of each member of the Strike and Gainesville community. Strike Magazine looks forward to continuing to empower our readers to think beyond the norm.

Strike Out, Erin Hu, Annie Ortega, & Maddy Whalen

ISSUE 06 ABOUT THE ISSUE

By Annie Ortega

There’s a strange sort of finality that a destination connotes.

For a moment, it’s as if I forget there’s always going to be another. I think it’s important to be present in that moment – to feel the finality of the place you’ve come to because there will never be another now.

But there’s also a fluidity that a destination connotes. It comes as fast as it flees. The finality lasts for a moment, but then, I’m fixated on what’s next. I think it’s important to be present in that next instance – to feel the fluidity of the next step that you take because there will always be another season calling you to a new destination.

This dichotomy between finality and fluidity captivated Erin, Maddy and me almost instantly. We contemplated this theme amid a transitional season where we could so vividly see a destination. Anticipating this destination made us nostalgic of the places we’ve been, and excited to create reflections of a variety of final and fluid destinations with our staff.

Our staff fully embraced the complexity of this theme by creating four distinct destinations that our readers can resonate with and find a little piece of themselves in each space.

Destination one — prospection — brings us to the turning point when you realize you’ve missed an opportunity that’s right at the tips of your fingers, just behind your back, and right underneath your feet.

Destination two — depletion — brings us to the moment you find out who you really are is nothing like the person you’ve been trying to become.

Destination three — defeat — brings us to the place where you experience the consequences of striving for perfection.

Destination four — harmony — brings us to the intersection between self-awareness and relational-empathy.

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PROSPECTION: A NARRATIVE PIECE 10 CONTENTMENT IN THE COMFORT ZONE 14 LIFE AFTER “LADY BIRD” 16 THE INTERSECTION OF FAITH & SEXUALITY: A CONVERSATION WITH ANNA SWYGERT 20 YOUR NOW IS ENOUGH 22

PROSPECTION

DEFEAT: A NARRATIVE PIECE 45 GRIM EXPECTATIONS: THE PITFALLS OF PRODUCTIVITY CULTURE 48 THE SOUL IN DESPONDENCY 50 FINISHED 54

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DEPLETION: A NARRATIVE PIECE 29 ADMIRATION AND ADVERSITY ACROSS AGES 30 SELLING THE MONA LISA 32 THE CITY THAT’S NEVER SATED 36

DEPL ETION

HARMONY HARMONY: A NARRATIVE PIECE 64 COALESCING IN A SEA OF SELFISHNESS 67 LOVE IS LEGION 68 SINCERELY YOURS, THE IDENTITY CLUB 71 THE YOUNIVERSE 75

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Photographed By: Brieanna Andrews, Paige Davis, Allison Epstein, Malyna Reed

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PROSPECTION

PROSPECTION A NARRATIVE PIECE

BY AJ BAFER

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I

’m clocked in. At my desk, nothing can negate my productivity. Only thoughts of the breeze, and the leaves, and the trees, and the — oh, please. None of that’s here, and none of it’s for me.

My briefcase, my shackle with a handle, is a bland reminder that I must find some fulfillment in an office of files, faxes and corporate fallacies.

My co-workers couldn’t be more pleased. They drone on about company policy, yapping into the bubbling depths of water-cooler conversations.

The bell tolls, and duty calls. I unload my baggage and can’t help but feel as empty as the untouched copies within it. Why be dissatisfied?

Who wouldn’t want their life’s work reduced to one-inch margins, Times New Roman, 12-point font, double-spacing, first-line indentation and left-aligned text? There’s a format, and I’m meant to fit it. Unload the rest. Stay busy so existentialism won’t be as bothersome.

Who knew stationery could steal so much space!

There’s this week’s assignment, there are last week’s revisions, there’s every tool I could ever need, there’s no room to breathe. My sweat trickles — my longing for liberation felt in prismatic condensation — down my cheeks, above my lip; a salty taste reminiscent of this bitter reality. I’m sweating bullets. Too many bullet points. I’ve bedraggled my business casual. Is it the office A/C again? My oxford shirt is coarse, and my tie seems to tighten in its attempt to restrain me. I claw at my collar, attempting to break loose from my accessorized noose. Back to work.

My keyboard clatters, and that’s all that matters.

Cut, copy, paste, throw in a comma for good measure. My eyes dart across the lifeless transcription, drawn again to my cluttered workspace. I envy its disarray — anything but well-shaven, spick-andspan or another mechanism in this monotonous machine. My keycaps chug along. I can’t help but

mimic their clacks, tapping my foot on the ground and my pen onto my desk in an effort to cling to the rhythm. I tap harder, and my workspace is shaken. Deafeningly loud, I’m smashing now. I wish it were my head. I cave and slam down, using my fists instead.

I rise, and the four-legged cell barely budges, stubborn as its prisoner. It mocks me with the volume of a thousand open tabs. But as I stand, its windows appear more minimized than I’m accustomed to. Perhaps I can close them.

Like twin cursors, I open my clenched hands and use them to send those wretched materials tumbling. Paper floats through the heavy air in retaliation, and I fix my hands on it with purifying force. I warp the pages as they’ve deformed me.

I scour the space for another couple handfuls, but — what’s this? I’m met with leaves instead of loose-leaf. A drop of dew fills my notebook’s blanks instead of ink. It carries more wonder than any water cooler, and it abandons office small talk for nature’s hum — a beauteous ballad of birds and bugs.

It feels otherworldly; I look above for its source.

The wide sky blankets me in an unabashed blue, idiosyncratic clouds ride an effortless breeze and animated tree canopies sway, just as freely. I strip myself of uniform — of occupation-enforced uniformity — and take comfort in the kind thistles cushioning my feet. This serenity — has it always been with me?

Before I’m answered, I’m drawn by the sound of droplets to the pond beside me. It plays softly on the sand, its ripples offering a reprieve. I enter seamlessly, allowing cool relief to encompass my being. I can’t help but grin, beaming as I bathe in the sunbeams.

My thoughts and desk are clear.

I clock out.

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CONTENT IN THE

COMFORT ZONE

BY CAROLINE WEBB

I’m not sure why the world wants to save me from my comfort zone. I have everything I need inside it: mediocrity, an overwhelming sense of anxiety and the occasional existential crisis. Seriously, if I wanted to leave, I would. Staying within the bounds of normalcy is relaxing; despite your mother’s claims, not everyone is destined to be great. It’s not like I feel trapped under the weighted blanket of my fear of failure or anything. My comfort zone is reliable — it keeps me at the slightly above-average performance-level I call home. I’ve made my bed here, and I see no reason to leave. In fact, the argument to stay is rather sweet; loads of throw pillows, no bras allowed and a soothing berry tea within reach.

People demonize the comfort zone, as if it doesn’t offer a perfectly satisfying existence.

To me, it’s not a prison; it’s a house. There is no sense of urgency to break through its walls. What others may view as confinement, for me, is a warm embrace. Here, I am safe from the judgement and exhausting expectations of the outside world. I am separated from a culture that exalts working to your own detriment and grinding until there’s nothing left. I can isolate myself from the comparisons of others’ successes and can avoid seeing my failures in their shadows. I am never subjected to feeling a nervous tinge in the pit of my stomach from being in an uncomfortable situation not of my choosing. I don’t have

competition and raging self-doubt are out there waiting to rip my head off. Instead, I choose to live a quaint life of constant regret. If the question “what if?” is the only thought my brain can form, so be it.

There’s nothing and no one to pull me from the cozy nest I’ve constructed but myself. I control my own destiny, so the best way not to fuck it up is to fluff my pillows and stick to what I know I can succeed in. I see reality for the unfair mess it is and have set achievable expectations accordingly. It’s my life, my one shot, so if I want to spend it in a box that I created for myself, I will do so comfortably. This way, I can make an honest living, pop out a kid or two, retire old and weary, maybe live out a few good years and die.

to doubt my abilities and feel like the imposter in the room. People say, “no risk, no reward.”

But I am not searching for a prize. Instead, I have stability from minimizing any risk taking.

I have predictability from controlling my environment; I’m never caught off guard, and I am assured I can handle the situation presented. I have normalcy from the little routine I follow day after day. They call it the comfort zone for a reason; I have just enough to keep me here. I am ensured a humble, moderately desirable life from my satin sheets.

Limiting myself is my form of self-preservation; a primal defense mechanism. Should I be expected to deplete my energy and drain my resources in an attempt to chase my dreams and pursue my passions? Sure, I could find purpose and true happiness, but I would more likely be met with disappointment and heartbreak. I would rather not be confronted with my own inadequacy. I see no reason to affirm to myself and everyone I care about that I’m not, and never have been, special. There’s a vast abyss of uncertainty lurking outside the walls I’ve built, and I know I would get lost if I ventured beyond them. Demons of volatile

LIF E

R E T F B Y IR D A A “L

D”

HARLOTTE

BY C DW YE R

Through the power of books, television and film, we succumb to the assumption that the world is our personal playground the moment we blow out the candles on our 18th birthday cake. We’re fed this coming-of-age tale because it’s easy to digest. It’s filling to believe that, after 18 years of struggle, we’ll wake up to the life we dreamt of.

“Lady Bird,” an iconic and formative film, tells the story of the titular protagonist’s senior year of high school. Her teenage years were met with self-depreciation and unfulfillment. She compared herself to the models in magazines and the popular girls at school who somehow looked fabulous in oversized plaid uniforms. She dedicated herself to a dream in order to escape her hometown’s isolation and inadequacy. The anecdote for her averageness? A college in New York City, of course. After rejections, ruined relationships and self-reconstruction, Lady Bird feels peace as she strolls the brownstone-lined streets of her dream school.

This turnout is typical of many high school comingof-age films. They often conclude with the protagonist donning their grad cap, holding their beloved’s hand and dream-college acceptance letter close to their heart.

However, life goes on after the credits roll.

We’re told our angsty teen years are the worst. We feel restless and use rebellion as our remedy. We direct different versions of ourselves to everyone we meet and each group we yearn to join. High school is made out to be the challenge to survive to reach adulthood, as if the rest of life will just trickle into place. It becomes the backdrop to glamorized films: sweethearts turn into soulmates; mousy misfits uncover their hidden beauty; wallflowers find life’s answers in the school library.

Beyond the screen, high school sets the scene for painful and formative experiences. Students crumble as they try to please a school of peers while surmising what they need to do to succeed. They’re berated with inner conflict, deciding if it’s better to be themselves or admired. This narrative excludes those who enjoyed their teen years but are left directionless once they follow the exit signs out of their high school’s familiar halls. The people who felt lost as a teen, and continue to feel astray after, are struck from the developmental

dialogue.

“Coming of age” is an abstract idea. At what age does this happen? Does it mean attaining a sense of independence and purpose? Despite its intangibility, this phrase causes us to define ourselves by an imaginary timeline.

We feel like failures when we aren’t our idealized selves after crossing the graduation stage. In reality, coming of age is a messy, marvelous and infinite cycle, coming in waves as we learn more about ourselves and how we “fit in” with each new school, job, home or person we encounter.

Countless times, I’ve felt as if I was standing still while everyone in the world spun around me; fulfilled, successful, already having come of age. Lady Bird entered her senior year trepidatious that her high school self would define her forever. This fear motivated her to break out and find belonging. My storyline is similar, just two years late.

To get ahead of growing up, I set aside my true passions, leaving me to feel hopelessly inauthentic. I assumed no one would want the girl who would rather spend Friday nights learning cooking techniques than partying. I tried to morph into what people around me looked and acted like, hoping it would keep me afloat until adulthood.

I reflected and realized that becoming an adult, and the version of yourself you cherish most, extends far beyond a certain age and or experience. In the end, it would never matter if I entered college as prom queen or class clown. My character arc is not scripted; it’s written as I make mistakes, decisions and meet new “characters” as I develop. My life’s runtime is unknown; it’s not marked with timestamps telling me when the heartbreaks, climaxes and resolutions occur.

I began to look at coming-of-age films as what they are: works of fiction. They showcase ideal lives that are amusing to watch but stray far from my reality. Instead of competing with the timeline of these characters’ lives, I watch my life’s story with fervor. I’ve found solace in discovering myself free of outside influence. I realized all I want in life is to cook enjoyable, decadent food while wearing a dainty floral dress that makes me feel confident – simple, yet genuine.

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STRIKE MAGAZINE | ISSUE 06 | 19 As I accepted the world around me, I saw I was not so behind. Change is inevitable; we are continuously evolving into better versions of ourselves, even if that takes a lifetime. On the same day someone is celebrating their newest job offer, I may be celebrating my first successful batch of macarons — entirely different situations, but independently impactful.

Your coming-of-age story need not be defined by those that preceded it, nor be limited to age; we are infinite, just like our unique opportunities to better ourselves. Your narrative may not have romantic film soundtracks outside of the theater, but that does not make their moments of growth, love or sadness any less popcorn-worthy.

Be forgiving of yourself and your mistakes, just as you are with your favorite fictional characters — embrace the unknown of your own storyline.

P

eople’s perceptions of me don’t define who I am,” Anna Swygert stated, frankly.

“I don’t have patience for bigotry, and I don’t put myself in communities that are inhospitable.”

Swygert unapologetically embraces her identity as a queer Christian woman; she fervently believes these two specifications should not be mutually exclusive. She is passionate about combatting heteronormativity, especially in communities of faith. She speaks truth to power in her openness about her sexuality amid a community historically dotted with oppression.

Swygert grew up as a United Methodist Christian and wanted to immerse herself in the tradition she was raised in, so she studied scripture for three years. She works at the Gator Wesley Foundation, the United Methodist Campus Ministry at the University of Florida. When she was a UF student from 2013 to 2017, she was enveloped within the community at Gator Wesley. She felt welcomed by the pastors, and even lived in their building as a residential staff member. When her father passed away during her undergraduate years, the Gator Wesley community was a fount of support, helping her get through one of the most difficult periods of her life.

Once she finished graduate school at Emory University, she returned to Gainesville to fulfill her commitment to being a source of knowledge for the queer Christian experience, especially to those who do not identify as part of the LGBTQ community. Swygert had the privilege of being accepted by her family, friends and church, but she understands this is not the case for all queer Christian individuals; she is determined to maintain Gator Wesley’s reputation as a safe space for all beliefs, sexual orientations and gender identities.

“Faith communities are having, and need to continue having, important conversations about acceptance,” Swygert said.

“The first step is making people who are in the LGBTQ community feel seen and loved, and admitting that the church tradition has hurt them.”

In understanding both faith and sexuality along spectrums, we can explore opportunities to better reflect the full nature of the human experience. People resonate with, or not at all, different facets of faith, yet positive changes taking place in religious groups are indisputably affecting the LGBTQ community. When churches begin to embrace acceptance, queer individuals no longer have to feel as though they are not welcome. Swygert has a vision of what inclusivity could look

like based on her experience with affirming churches, or churches that are inviting to and accepting of queer Christians. These beacons are working to repair the damage that history has inflicted. She also introduced the concept of “church clarity,” which involves research done on churches to ascertain whether they are truly affirming; this creates necessary accountability. She believes the final step is having queer people involved in church leadership, and, as a church employee, she is living proof of this potential reality.

Swygert is cognizant of the undeniable Christian privilege looming over society in the United States, manifested in the push of Christian values in the media and in politics. A small group of powerful individuals is, unfortunately, cloaking prejudices in religious language, fabricating a facade that all Christians are closed-minded. Therefore, she believes churches have a responsibility to become more inclusive.

“As the church becomes more affirming, that translates to structural changes,” Swygert explained, drawing a link between church inclusivity and societal reform. “Churches should become fluent in the language of allyship, because they have a commitment to the community.” In a world where religion is utilized to perpetuate division, there are many religious and spiritual organizations, from all different faiths and backgrounds, fighting back and working hard to be better allies to their LGBTQ members. Individuals can do this, too, and it begins with listening to people’s experiences, validating their feelings and celebrating love in its infinite forms.

The intersection of faith and sexuality is multi-dimensional; its complexity is influenced by the diversity among all individual identities on the faith and sexuality spectrums. People who choose a life of faith do not fit neatly into ideology boxes. The same goes for sexuality, which is inherently complex and fluid, leaving no black-and-white when it comes to singling out groups of people. It is unacceptable for there to be in-groups and out-groups in faith communities, especially when selective inclusivity is based on something as intrinsically human as someone’s sexual nature.

“Communities of faith need to name the harm that history has caused and repent,” Swygert concluded, spotlighting a need for action. “There is a lot of repair that needs to be done, and it can only be done if we love each other equitably, in pursuit of justice.”

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THE INTERSECTION OF FAITH AND SEXUALITY: A CONVERSATION WITH ANNA SWYGERT

BY DANIELLA CONDE

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The image of an ideal self implies that you are inferior in the present; it whispers the idea into your subconscious that you are not already enough.

Looking inward to find true fulfillment is one of the most enriching endeavors we can embark upon. As you evolve, explore the world and endure hardships, you begin to bear feelings related to your experiences. You cannot change the nature of these circumstances, but you can develop a deeper sense of how to respond and cope. You retreat inward; you try to find the root of the problem and look toward your own flaws without fear of what you might discover. In this sense of self-awareness, the importance of accepting your emotions becomes apparent. Only inside yourself are you able to reflect and reconnect with your emotions, and find greater meaning in them. This transforms the experience and, thus, transforms yourself. Outside experiences are just occurrences until you allow them meaning. By reaching inward, you leave yourself open for more growth.

There is no step-by-step guide to navigating your identity, so how do you start? Maybe you will go chasing after a glorified version of yourself, hoping to uncover them in books, movies, a career path, mindset or new hobbies. You write your new daily routine in the planner you swear to use, but this doesn’t allow you to tap into yourself. You’re expecting yourself to be 10 miles ahead when you haven’t even prepared to climb.

On the trail to self-understanding, the idea of finding yourself often gets lost along the way, taking on a new face: transformation, or becoming anew. But you can’t recognize something that has been misshapen. You’re staring at a rippling river reflection. You labor under the delusion that you’ll find contentment once you start waking up every morning at 6 a.m., once you see your weight goal numbered on the scale, once your closet is full of trendy pieces, or once you develop the natural, easy-going persona you so desperately want to give off. It is then the opposite: it’s inorganic. We see these things praised, and we think we must attain that for ourselves. You try to mold yourself a case to fit into, but it doesn’t leave you any room to stretch. In this, you mentally block progress. Force-feeding the idea that you must ditch your current habits – late mornings, screen time, or nighttime binges – will only leave you disheartened. Progress is constructive when it’s not expected to happen overnight.

Enter self-transformation: the mental path and guidelines you draw up to become your ideal self. It’s an idea ever-so-present in our world, in our media and in our conversations. It’s found in motivational phrases and overloaded in online social media graphics of toxic positivity. Self-transformation is well-intentioned. Striving to better yourself is an admirable goal, but it often gets muddled while searching for an ideal self. As we grow older, we mold and shape ourselves

YOUR NOW

The image of an ideal self rior in the present; it whissubconscious that you are

IS ENOUGH

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BY GRACE BENNEYWORTH

implies that you are infepers the idea into your not already enough.

– perhaps, life does that for us. We mislead ourselves with the fantasy that we will tackle life easier once we become the perfected version of ourselves that we have romanticized in our mind. This idea forever deludes the present moment. You forget to acknowledge the growth you’re achieving through your current experiences.

Self-transformation carries the negative connotation that you need to embark on a journey of reinvention. The troubling philosophy behind it, though, is that the person we are now — the mindset we possess and the body we encompass — is baggage to be discarded. It is to be traded up for something more preferable. As we age, life offers more of itself to us. These experiences add to the person we already are. You can’t be the person you want to be tomorrow if you can’t recognize the one you are today.

At one point in your life, you longed to be where you are now. Your childhood self dreamt of this stage of life. Don’t abandon the ways they have led you to the person you are now. Tune back into that childhood version of yourself, and accept where you are right now. The person you confront every morning, the person you are now, is the result of the choices made by that younger self. Think of the feelings of freedom and bliss from your childhood. You likely weren’t thinking about how to become a new, better self. You were more free from comparison. Connect back to the passions, feelings and activities you enjoyed then. This rejoining allows you to piece together a more present and accepting version of yourself.

You will grow and learn in the process of finding yourself, but you will be able to do so with clarity once you are easier on yourself. Let go of the pressure of becoming ideal.

You will connect deeper to your true nature once you see yourself as you are in this moment.

We should all have the grace and kindness to take care of our body, mind and soul. Adopting new, healthy habits is a wonderful thing – you can always improve yourself.

Transforming a bad habit into a positive one, transforming your self-criticism into positive self-talk – these are valuable evolutions. But you will not wake up one day a new person, so it’s crucial to confront your current self. Reach toward your inner-self and open up to them. Lay everything out on the table, grab their hand. Bring them along on your new, self-discovering endeavors.

Your fears and doubts are often so deeply entwined with your shadows, and by garnering a deeper understanding of yourself, you shed light on them. Becoming a better you starts with building upon the foundation of where you are now. We lose sight of the beauty around and inside us when we’re hyper-focused on what is to come, especially when we expect a part of ourselves to be uncovered. You are all there — move forward.

E

PLETION “Poised. Proper. Picturesque.” The words swirl around her head like an intense ballet as she waits for her audience of one — or many. She hopes they describe the light in which the artist will paint her, manifesting the masterpiece to present for all to see. But at what cost?

Photographed By: Brieanna Andrews, Samy Asfoor, Malyna Reed, Ryan Rivas, Johann Vazquez

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D EPLETI0N

A NARRATIVE PIECE

BY JACOB MCLEAN

“P

oised. Proper. Picturesque.”

The words swirl around her head like an intense ballet as she waits for her audience of one — or many. She hopes they describe the light in which the artist will paint her, manifesting the masterpiece to present for all to see. But at what cost? As she waits for the painter to arrive, she’s still. Behind her eyes are an abyss; they display the emptiness for which she constructs her daily facade to hide behind. Will it finally happen today?

Will the front she’s put up finally fall? Her maestro arrives and unfurls his toolkit. Inside, it holds his instruments that cut lines and apply vibrant hues with surgical precision. He orients her. She forces an obligatory smile.

The artist toils away at the canvas, slapping paint down to produce the abstraction perched in front of him. Who has a hand in creating the portrayal to be presented to the audience? Is it the subject? Is it the audience? Or, is it an interdependence of pushes and pulls between the two that produces the final product? She attempts to maintain her composure.

She’s content with the image she’s built thus far.

The artist works unwittingly. In her desolate gaze, a small twitch develops.

She attempts to fight it. Rubbing her eye, she hopes to correct the discrepancy like a photo filter.

The move only peels back the outer layer of what she thought was an impenetrable suit of armor. Her malaise is gradually exposed as her makeup smears across her supple skin. The image she’s maintained begins to pull apart at its seams, and she’s only beginning to understand how much effort it takes. At what expense? Her energy? Her sanity? That might just be the price of preserving vanity.

The once-perfect posture she held starts to slouch as her facade crumbles like a neglected building. As if the twitch was a contagion, it spreads throughout her body. She feels the control she once grasped so firmly slipping away. The image she’s constructed is

feeling more like a prison than a palace. Each breath gets shallower with every one she takes. Beads of sweat form on her skin, casting a dewy glow across her streaked cosmetics. The room shrinks, and her corset tightens. She has to break free from the mold she’s created.

The artist continues to craft his masterpiece from behind his lens as if he doesn’t notice what should be so apparent. No one ever seems to. All the signs one would think are apparent are shielded. At this point, she can’t seem to find a single molecule of oxygen in the air. She’s choking. She attempts to pull at her silk bustier to free herself from the lace and wool prison she places herself in. She claws at it, only to feel it get tighter. She’s reaching her breaking point. She thrusts herself out of the chair and slams her foot down, letting the artist know she’s done trying to keep up. Like a calcium-deficient bone — SNAP! Her heel breaks, revealing an outward manifestation of the off-kiltered feelings welling over inside.

Leaping from his chair, the artist reveals his triumph. She doesn’t want to look, but she does anyway. Everything she sees is a contradiction to what she feels. Perfect proportions, lustrous lighting and succulent shading reveal themselves to her. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t have the energy to attempt to begin to understand. All she knows is the work is done. She posts it on her wall for who, she reaffirms, is only herself. As she turns to a mirror, she witnesses the true chaos she’s revealed. It confuses her. Is this all happening inside? Is it all a delusion? Is she broken? She remembers to force her smile, and a tear streams down her cheek.

She turns and gives one last gaze to the emulation on her wall. The real audience appears. Hiding behind anonymous names and screens, she can’t make any of them out. They envelop her as they close in on the work. She has nothing else to give.

She’s depleted.

A

DMIRATION AND ADVERSITY ACROSS AGES

N

o matter if they are a flower child, cyberspace pioneer or a social media savant, it seems those of every era desire to hear something different. Is their favored form of acclaim predetermined by personal preference, or are they sculpted by experience and adversity? From time bombs to phone alarms, digging into past and present problems can uncover what makes entire generations tick, as reflected by their preferred form of admiration.

A few formative factors govern generational differences. The cohort effect, or the result of sharing comparable experiences with a group, is key. It plays a role in how varying generational groups view the receipt of admirations, resulting in the development of the perceptions and views of that generation. With their divergent experiences, each generation possesses different perceptions, framing the world in terms of the events that shaped them so early in life. Whether it be incessant war and recession; the advent of the iPhone and introduction of social media; or the experiences of Woodstock and the civil rights movements of the ‘60s, shared events present generations with periods of arduous growth. What many members of generations want to be admired for is conquering the calamities these critical events created.

Baby boomers have been around the block. Apart from bowing to the beauty of Beatlemania, the sagacious generation was born into the rolling thunder of the Vietnam War and the civil rights movement. Even so, they developed core values such as “wanting to make a difference,” being “team-oriented,” and support for “equal rights,” according to generational research from the University of South Florida. Boomers’ values demonstrate a desire to continue to learn from the conflict they spotted in adolescence, becoming a generation of empathetic revolutionaries.

The “baby busters” of Generation X faced experiences against the backdrop of the Gulf War in the Middle East coupled with the recession in the early ‘90s. Many of Gen X’s older individuals

BY KATE CORCORAN

had a hard time ditching the savings-friendly dorm diet once they graduated, facing a weak job recovery and shallow pockets as a result of the fiscal policy decisions of the late ‘80s. Along with millennials, Gen X zeroed in on workplace success as their preferred flattery. Wracked with recessions, they generally long for financial stability above all else.

A problematic parallel, Millennials faced similar experiences as they were thrust from college graduation into a desolate job market. The 2007-2008 financial crisis discombobulated the global financial system, forcing many broke businesses to cut back. Additionally, the U.S. still had a major presence in the Middle East with seemingly never-ending wars that were the byproducts of 9/11. Yet millennials, in stubborn defiance of disparaging stereotypes, are realists who value achievement and being highly tolerant, according to USF’s generational research.

The seemingly constant uncertainty of war and recession that made up their adolescence may have produced a more accepting generation; one of individualism and one far from its entitled reputation.

Growing up in the digital age set Generation Z apart from their elders, and their shared experience is a world of overexposure to exponentially expanding sources of information and misinformation. Zoomers covet one main concept in a compliment: that they are different. One could wager that social media has caused Gen Z’s problem to be a constant comparison.

The solution? To the children of Instagram profiles filled with aesthetic photo squares: being outside-the-box.

Every generation’s values were established in their youth, with the hardships of their adolescence influencing what they crave to overcome. Overcoming personal, generational difficulties is the finest form of flattery between decades. Individuals of all ages desire to be reminded that they have beaten Goliath and moved on from the miseries of the past.

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SELLING T H E M ONA L I S A

BY KATE CORCORAN

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Lost in a daze of dollars, the average consumer spins around in search of art as it once was.

L

ost in a daze of dollars, the average consumer spins around in search of art as it once was. What surrounds us now is advertising, the art form that dominates modern society. Glaring, neon advertisements are plastered on every wall, cheapening the significance of once-great masterpieces.

What would the Renaissance’s creators and creations say of this evolution? What would the Mona Lisa say if she could listen to an advertiser try to pitch her sale? Looking out upon an oak-paneled boardroom, her soft smile would fade. Her eyes, which once watched art around us symbolize beauty, would glaze over at the sight of Times Square. Where the Louvre holds the knowledge of the ages, woven into artworks of the masters, Manhattan hypnotizes tourists with swirling patterns until they forget art ever had a deeper meaning. Where art once replenished, it now drains.

“This is the ‘Mona Lisa,’” an advertiser would drone. “If you own her, you own originality. She redefined portraiture. Buy the ‘Mona Lisa,’ and you own the work that won the Renaissance. And this is ‘The David.’ Buy ‘The David,’ and you can be transported back to the days of your youth.

Buy the statue of the boy, and you too will be young. Over here, we have the ‘Birth of Venus.’ The goddess of beauty.

How could her owner not also be beautiful? Buy beauty.”

And so the mad men work, pitching to every emotion and insecurity. They idealize false perfection; they lurk behind the mirror of every self-conscious buyer, they peer

into pursuits of the public, and they sculpt the new-age masterpiece. Once finished, their attention-grabbing art is plastered on magazines, posters and screens.

This masterpiece is an empty, stubborn serenade — a shallow song stuck in our heads. It twists through minds, playing over and over again. Potent but fleeting, no other thought remains untainted from its raucous chorus. The art around us is now a jungle of jingles, a gallery for gain.

But there had once been a higher purpose to art. Once, the daze of a dream had not been warped into the tool of the seller. Once, the thoughtful longing of nostalgia was not devoid of thought, broadcasted onto every brightly backlit commercial. Once, beauty was envisioned as the birth of Aphrodite, strength was marble sculpted into David, and happiness dwelt on the lips of the Mona Lisa.

Every brushstroke, chisel and carve of the Renaissance brimmed with intent. The artists glimpsed life’s intricacies and worked to show the world of meaning. They played with emotions, but they never preyed on them. Their work did not lead viewers to a storefront, but tangible beauty and truth. Where art once led to depths, it now absentmindedly splashes in a coin-filled fountain.

And so the Mona Lisa stares at the meeting of mad men.

They sit in silly pursuits, toying with weapons they wield flippantly on an ever-lost public. She is being sold, and art no longer whispers of wonder. It just snakes around a greenback.

on an ever-lost public.

And so the Mona Lisa

they wield flippantly

stares at the meeting of

mad men. T hey sit in silly

toying with weapons

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THE CITY THAT’S NEVER

SATED

BY CHARLOTTE DWYER

When my dream of college life with you didn’t come to fruition, I felt powerless. Did I really waste six years contorting myself for a place that did not even want me? I finally saw your flaws. I saw how hostile you could be to those who admired you the most. You stand tall with Lady Liberty, claiming to be a beacon of hope to the tired, to the poor, to the freedom-seekers. I saw how deceitful you were; your open arms were a front, and you would always turn away those who didn’t fit your vision. I felt as if I was standing on the Brooklyn Bridge, enamored

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Painted by Alex Baleno

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with your beauty but forced to leave. Your skyline of success started to seem like a facade, hiding the struggles of those within their walls. Your grit can destroy the spirit of those you deem “weak,” while it allows the obedient others to flourish.

I know I have much of my life ahead of me. There will be plenty of moments for Park Avenue walks and rainy nights at a dive diner. However, no life is without moments of disappointment, and I know you will not always be there to rescue me with your charm. I can no longer plan my life according to my idealized version of you.

I may not be New Yorker Charlotte, and with that comes dismay. Sometimes I feel as if I’m in a cab cruising down Madison Avenue, entirely fulfilled.

But, more often, I feel as if I’m hailing a taxi that will never come. Nonetheless, I’m starting to admire who I’m becoming: a person who adores you but is no longer dependent upon you. I’ve begun envisioning how I could still be fortunate enough to build an accomplished life with others, free of your demands.

You are Dear New York City, I had always heard about you. My dad would call from gilded Manhattan hotels while on business trips and, at Thanksgiving dinner, my eldest cousin — and idol — would rave about her enchanting life in the East Village. You were a far-off land to me, a place for adults to slowly sip cocktails in dimly-lit bars and frantically attend meetings, not a place for a 6-year-old girl just growing out of her princess gowns.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I was 12-years-old when I first saw you as something I wanted for myself, as I watched you become the unexpected main character on “Gossip Girl.” You were the formidable backdrop for my favorite characters to navigate their young-adult years. You made the struggles of growing up look chic, as you allowed heartbroken divas to strut to the Met in Chanel dresses with a stomach full of hors d’oeuvres. I outlined my life with you: walking on Fifth Avenue to my glamorous office space, Prada handbag on my arm, leaving my flawlessly restored brownstone. It was an unconventional dream for a fresh-faced middle schooler,

but it pushed me to transform myself into what I assumed would be the “better” version of myself — someone you would be proud of.

You pushed me to play piano and morph into a marvel in the kitchen because all good New Yorkers had to be multifaceted; I could not just be Julia Child or Beethoven — I had to be both. Once I had the talents, it was time for a makeover. I tossed my Abercrombie graphic tees and told my mom I would need more sophisticated pieces since, obviously, your streets were only open to those in proper attire. After all, you only wanted the best for me; I needed to be ready to live among your ominous alleyways and faceless criminals. Not everyone could make it with you.

I became the best for you. I forced myself into an “Empire State of Mind,” which meant speeding up or getting out of the way. I’d cry from burnout after inundating myself with countless classes and responsibilities. As my framed photo of you taunted me, I would lie awake, flipping through textbooks and crossing my fingers that what I had done was enough. I’d reassure myself the stress was worth it because, after high school, I’d move and be the person I thought I was supposed to be: New Yorker Charlotte, someone who embraced the New York minute as she lived a life of endless energy and opportunity. Your delectable duality would surround me with inspiring professionals and crummy cafe croissants 24/7. It seemed you could offer me everything. alluring as ever, with your tailored cuisines and awe-inspiring architecture, but you aren’t my lifeline.

I’m choosing to release myself from your grip. I no longer need to reflect on what went wrong to separate us. Instead, I’d much rather focus on the person I can be now; someone who would make that 6-yearold girl cheer from her toy castle in astonishment.

You’re imperfect, despite the success stories and Pinterest boards that insist otherwise. No matter where I end up, I know I’ll make that starry-eyed little girl smile with pride one day — maybe with you, but certainly not for you.

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She turns and gives one last gaze to the emulation on her wall. The real audience appears. Hiding behind anonymous names and screens, she can’t make any of them out. They envelop her as they close in on the work. She has nothing else to give. She’s depleted.

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I

am everything and nothing. My mind is littered with selfdoubt and polluted by the perfection I will never achieve. My work is the only morsel of light in my life, yet I can only create in darkness. I take the road less traveled to my motel, whereby on my weary way the ravens mock my misery, and the ghosts of poetry’s past demand I meet their egregious expectations. I bite my tongue, clench my typewriter, and reject that my success is the product of sorrow and solitude.

My chamber of creativity welcomes me with a warm embrace that thaws the frustration of my frostbitten heart. I close the door, and I shut the rest of the world out with it.

At last, I am alone. Perhaps I am too alone.

The mattress cradles me amid the chaos. Its springs absorb the weight of my burdens. It begs me to rest. I won’t. I can’t. I don’t deserve such a delicacy, for I haven’t created enough. I am not enough. I am, however, sinking slowly into the silence. The whirring of the world ceases, and I am complete.

I am completely alone.

Isolation breeds imagination, or so my depression insists. My anxiety inspires my thoughts to spiral. My eyes wander. They stare at the mangled papers and broken promises of my past life. My eyes water. The unaddressed love letters, the infinite array of incomplete ideas, the dew on documents I desperately drew during yet another creative drought. They glare at me. Their scribbles scoff knowing that, despite their unfinished business, they are fuller than I. Instead of serving as centerpieces in the libraries and livelihoods they ought to enrich, my creations pose as companions to the crumbs of my motel room.

They forsake my friendship, though. I am alone.

I am accompanied only by the affliction of my thoughts and the agony of my inadequacy. The dreary drafts decorating my room multiply as the voice in my head roars louder. Be quiet, I’m begging. I can’t focus. I must finish. I haven’t started. This time will be different. No, it won’t, but I will be. Or will I? Certainly not.

I mute the mayhem long enough to fixate myself to my typewriter; my reason for breathing, my reason for bleeding. I humble myself before its blank pages, which are abundant with a bleak beauty I know all too well. Its paint chippings remind me of the artistic downfalls I’ve overcome, and its dust reminds me of the ones yet to come.

Inhale. The lights dim. Exhale. The room closes in.

My space gets smaller, and the walls grow thinner. Words begin to whirl around my room, with my unoriginality as their axis. The silence starts to shriek. The ceiling fan spins with a turbine’s intensity. A dog’s distant howl and a child’s careless laughter pierce my ears. Even the faucet’s drip distracts me from my dreams.

I experience everything, yet I feel nothing.

The sensations overpower who I am and what I yearn to create.

All but the clicking of the typewriter strips my sanctuary of its beloved silence. Here, I crumble in a hurricane that was once a haven.

I’ve created nothing, and I’ve lost everything.

My manuscript meets the fate of its master, complete with defeat.

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I

had a panic attack the night before my first college paper was due.

My hands shook violently as I compiled the research I’d been staring at for 12 hours. I couldn’t remember how long it had been since I’d last eaten or slept. I wanted to collapse — I needed to — but I was bolstered upright by the empty coffee cups scattered across my desk and the deep-seated panic grasping my throat. Having spent so long confined in my own words, I could only think of everything I should’ve done better. “I can’t believe how sloppy the language is in this paragraph,” “This argument is so contrived and pointless,” “My professor is going to read this garbage; he must despise me.” The critiques pounded against my chest as tears welled in my eyes. No matter how much effort I exerted, my work would never be good enough to quell the self-loathing thoughts scraping at my insides.

I allowed myself to sob hysterically for a half-hour, no more or less, before returning to my writing.

We’ve been taught to believe in the value of hard work.

From building volcanoes for elementary school science projects to running laps around the neighborhood to train for a 5K, the more effort we invest into a task, the stronger the payoff. This truth is ingrained in our brains from the moment we’re born. As soon as our feet brush the ground, we’re encouraged to push ourselves forward until we walk into our families’ arms.

Given the Pavlovian-style positive reinforcement we receive upon performing well on a task — whether that’s the shiny gold star your teacher stuck to your A+ book report or the joyful pride that inflates your chest when someone says they’re proud of you— it’s natural to push for perfection.

However, the fast-paced expectations of modern-day life have forged a culture of self-destructive productivity. We’re expected to adhere to tight deadlines and prioritize work over all else; we’re encouraged to pull all-nighters, skip meals and forgo social interaction to finish projects on time; we’re berated and stripped of our achievements when we can’t reach the high expectations set for us. Rather than putting extra time into our work to succeed, the pressure placed on us by the productivity-obsessed status quo twists our perfectionism into crushing anxiety over the possibility of failure.

Above all, we’re petrified of how this failure reflects our worth.

Like my essay-induced panic attack, when we internalize

the harsh judgment we face from superiors, we convince ourselves that the expectations for our success represent who we are. If you’re only praised for your talent or skill while at work, it’s easy to trick yourself into thinking it’s your only worthwhile attribute. This can spur oversensitivity, where a teacher’s simple critique of your short story’s prose transforms into a targeted attack — someone’s opinion of your work warps into a reflection of their opinion of you.

The pressure of perpetual precision can trap you in a toxic headspace. Internalizing criticism harbors self-doubt, disparaging you from pursuing any of your goals. Worse yet, you may find yourself unable to stop working, trapping yourself in a lifeless, windowless room for hours on end, floundering to prove yourself worthy of the praise you so desperately seek.

But perfection isn’t real. No matter how many sleepless nights we spend relentlessly pursuing it, nothing — not even the most meticulously calculated supercomputer — is free of flaws. It’s unhealthy and unrealistic to expect anything, including your most praiseworthy products, to ever be perfect — even if you replicate every crevice and crinkle of your portrait subject’s face, someone will despise your delicate brushwork. When we grind for hours to surpass others’ standards, we risk spiraling into self-loathing if we fall short.

Work is but a moment of your multifaceted life. You are so much more than what you make — your relationships, your love and your happiness are just as essential to who you are. Don’t define your worth by your work; define it by the smile that lit up your elderly neighbor’s rosy cheeks after you baked him banana bread, the way you embraced your crying best friend in a warm hug, the wet kisses your dog plants on your face every time you give her belly rubs, or whatever else in life brings you joy.

I got a B+ on the paper. My professor thought it was perfectly serviceable — nothing to write home about, thoroughly adequate. After flipping through the barebones rubric he’d filled out, which was empty aside from my name and score, I realized I’d spent more time panicking about his reaction to the paper than he spent grading it.

That night, I reminded myself what it felt like to think about something other than work: I facetimed my best friend, inhaled a bag of popcorn and spent hours giggling over “Brooklyn 99.”

It was the most alive I’d felt in weeks.

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STRIKE MAGAZINE | ISSUE 06 molded | 50 out of melancholic emoBeautiful art is often

tions. Sadness is the center of many wonderful creative works, as we recognize ourselves in emotion. Despair is a collective feeling– not one of us escapes it. Paradoxically, we often lean further into it.

Kurt Cobain, the late frontman of Nirvana, sang, “I miss the comfort in being sad.” Alluding to emptiness, feeling numb can be worse than feeling sad. In sorrow, there is a familiarity. You have felt it before, and you’ve weathered it.

Emptiness deprives us of the human experience. Though it may not be pleasant, there is something to make out of despair. You grow through these feelings, and you recognize what weighs on your heart. More of yourself is to be found in every emotion you face. Let them shake you.

Why can we find solace in something associated with hurt?

Happiness is a happening. It is not a destination. Once we release the pressure and disappointment in ourselves to not feel sad, we see and experience emotions at face value. They are the only guide to yourself that you have.

You experience the world through your emotions, even sorrow. This is where we push into them; we turn on our sad playlists and rewatch movies that make us cry. We hear ourselves in lyrics and see ourselves in characters. There is a richness in human emotion, even if it isn’t an explicitly positive one. We’re left with connection. That character on the screen knows the same defeat, and so do the people around you. To feel is to learn, both more about life and yourself.

Charles Bukowski — a German American poet and novelist — wrote, “If you don’t have much soul left and you know it, you still got soul.” Bukowski scribed this in a story speaking of dullness, “dull days and nights and no meaning, no chance.” Even when you feel hurt so sharp that you feel you are slipping away from yourself, the ability to recognize this as an emotion and as an experience is how you can reshape your reality. Bukowski infers that despair is just as close to the soul as joy. Life is dull without it; it is something that can be recognized instead for proof of life.

As it often brings bliss, joy can sedate the anxieties hiding in the corners of your mind. It’s easy to stay in the flow

of life when things are going well. But when the euphoria fades, and premonitions of depression creep in, you connect with yourself in a way independent of elated emotion.

It is an opportunity to explore why you’re experiencing these feelings and, thus, you can become more in tune with your emotions. It might feel like dirty work, but only you can get the grime out. Pull out a journal or a canvas. Make those playlists, watch the sappy movie, call a friend, family member, or a therapist. These acts are toughest in the moment but, when given the chance, can lead you to utmost gratification. When we get in touch with these feelings, we are able to find a light in them. It becomes less about escaping the discomfort linked with unhappiness. Sadness tunes you back into what you hold dearest; you ache over the things closest to your heart. As the intricacies of your feelings unwind, you face them. You observe them. You’re able to work through them in new ways. There is a breath of relief in these recognitions. You are uncovering more of yourself.

Sylvia Plath, an American poet and novelist, wrote, “It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.” Written in Plath’s novel, “The Bell Jar,” this ode to depression focuses on the odd relief in defeat. Plath prefaces this line in noting how “wonderfully solid” the floor seemed. It’s easy to expect the worst when you’re sad — you are almost prepared for it. In this preparation, we aren’t blindsighted by disappointment. We familiarize ourselves with sadness, and so it becomes easier to swallow.

We level our expectations, and we befriend harsh realities and stubborn complexities. However, this comes with bravely exposing and embracing such sadness, as you will not know how solid the floor is unless you feel it yourself.

We’re doomed to meet despair; we often create an opening for it. It can help to let your emotions guide you, instead of feeling like you have to guide them. We’re able to find balance and feelings of ease, even when it may feel as though we’ve hit rock bottom. A life with meaning and love doesn’t exist withholding sorrow. We recognize this and find that, with a little practice, sorrow can be advantageous, allowing us to grow our emotional range.

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The lamp’s glare jolted my head to attention.

Is it morning?

Shit, I’m late.

Sleep spindles.

1:58 a.m.

It was due four hours ago.

Even my life is unoriginal.

A ring from the phone.

The shrill makes my ears buzz.

I hate that song.

My glazed eyes snap into focus.

This shirt smells like cigarettes and stale beer.

If I answer, a lecture: “Are my chapters coming?

Are you working?”

These jeans are stained.

Is that blood or wine?

If I don’t, I keep gazing at my page.

When was my last shower?

I strain to not break eye contact, I lose.

Only a byline.

I got it!

Wait, that’s already been done.

Themes are themes because they’ve been done.

Do I create a new motif?

A work of originality?

A view-altering stroke of genius?

Perhaps, a walk?

A drive around the block?

Get some air, clear my mind.

Sober up.

Will I see someone?

Will they know I failed?

Will they know I have no thoughts?

Can I do that?

The page is blank.

Three years of nothing.

The washed-up poet, the drunk author.

Hemingway, Poe, Faulkner.

I was a best-seller, an award-winner, a city park bench-namer.

Already been done.

Now, a dog could write better.

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Where is my inspiration?

Elsewhere.

I will stay here, in the discomfort of my own home, where books scream and pens sigh.

I am a sellout, a burnout.

Reviews framed on the walls: “A breath of originality.”

“A voice to break the silence of monotony in literature.”

I was a breath, a voice.

Balls of rejected hooks and plotlines scattered near the trash can.

Scars on my desk from counting my attempts.

Forty-three.

I will start from scratch.

Or, maybe not.

What about a sequel?

That’s not an original thought.

A prequel?

How cliché.

Should I quit while I’m behind?

The phone rings again.

This time I pick up.

Will I disappoint?

Have I disappointed?

“You’re finished.”

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Photographed By: Samy Asfoor, Anna Carrington, Paige Davis, Allison Epstein, Stephanie Garcia, Jared Neikirk, Ryan Rivas

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A NARRATIVE PIECE

BY HANNAH SHELTON, AJ BAFER, JACOB MCLEAN

“D

inner’s ready!”

The table is set. Guests are arriving. Libations are being poured. However, disengagement is at an all-time high. The journey to harmony is starting.

It’s one of the most enchanting states of being to attain, but harmony is not static. The very moment we find it nestled in our grasp is often the same second it slips away. It’s cyclical in nature, and its waxes and wanes create a process of disengagement and discourse in the attempt to find fullness. How can we construct this state of harmony and hold onto it? Our story is only beginning.

As the patrons pour in, they plop into their chairs. Their avant-garde attire accents the chaos brewing within, but the room’s demeanor is still. The guests are guarded. They’ve set up smokescreens that cloud their outward perspective, each individual teeming with toxic introspection. Hell, they don’t want to be at this dinner — there are other lively places to be and other like-minded people to talk to. The room’s silence amplifies small sounds to nuclear levels. Small clicks bloat the room as a gala guest types madly at their keyboard and fills their void with bluelight. Fabric rubbing on leather, eye blinks turn to rolls, muffles morph into snores. It’s all a bore. The host sits discontented; his guests haven’t acknowledged his existence since his entrance.

The disengagement encapsulates one of the most cumbersome obstacles to achieving harmony: the preoccupation of one’s own issues and internal feelings, thus causing them to be disinterested about others’. The consequences of this can be cataclysmic, manifesting as a lack of understanding for our peers. It plants the seed for discord to flourish.

STRIKE | ISSUE 06 | 65 In a brazen attempt to grab his MAGAZINE guests’ attention, even if for a fleeting second, the host tenderly raises his glass and taps it with his steak knife. The pitiful clink reverberates through the room and, as if out of obligation, all guests but one toast to the source. A slight nudge aims to wake the straggler from an enviable slumber. His awakening sends a glass of liquid courage cascading. The simple spill sets the choreographed chaos in motion. A particularly perturbed dinner-goer backs away from the blunder, grating the ground with their seat legs. They switch from indifference to the offensive, desecrating the spiller’s plate of room-temperature hors d’oeuvres. Another guest joins the turmoil — they grab the grub on someone else’s plate, licking it with more enthusiasm than the banquet has held all night.

Harmony inhibited, it’s animosity for the sake of it.

The table vibrates with tantalizing tension. An oblivious waiter carts in an array of guilty pleasures, from spunky jello to saccharine cake, diverse as those dining on them. All now attentive, the guests share a collective stare. The sweets are served.

An eager eater cuts a precise slice, and a moist mouthful sheds crumbs from their fork as they go to indulge. But, instead, they feed a friend — and it’s divine for both sides. As more pieces are dished out, more forks meet foreign mouths. Delicious delight takes hold of the crowd, and the dinner’s a communion now. A high of sugar and companionship expels them from their seats, sent into a raving sway as they join hands in dance.

Here, even through dining detachment and disaster, we taste tranquility in all its deliciousness. There need not be a curfew for it — if we relish in it as one, in favor and forgiveness of vanity and hostility, harmony might just stick around for dessert.

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STRIKE MAGAZINE | ISSUE 06 | 67

COALESCING IN A C

oral reefs aren’t the vibrant wonderlands we once romanticized while watching “Finding Nemo” or “The Little Mermaid” as kids. Shimmering schools of fish, neon plants and exquisite marine fauna no longer live in a haven under the sea. Mother Nature’s rich masterpiece has since gone bleak, stripped of its glorious colors and deprived of some of its most unique organisms to a world gone gray. Like society, reefs must actively be conserved, or they will deteriorate. Collective negligence of pressing issues such as racial inequity, climate change and corporate greed will leave a society just as bleached.

When coral bleaches, there’s a limited window for it to reverse back into its natural, fluorescent form. Tending to the reef’s vulnerable state undoes the damage of past actions, allowing its society to flourish even more harmoniously than ever before. Detaching the toxicity from self-love is the first step in making our reef that much more glorious.

Individualism is not inherently toxic — it’s necessary for personal development and growth, and it revolves around the rights and goals of a single person. If you’re constantly giving and lending a helping hand to those around you, it’s sometimes necessary to have a selfish day to recharge your social battery. Others enjoy solitude simply for the sake of it. Spending time with yourself can enable you to learn more about yourself and, thus, how to better tend to and identify with that person. Discovering who you are and what you want to do in this life gives you the clarity that is needed to make a lasting impact in society. In a nurturing and beneficial relationship, both parties must be content with themselves. If you do not have self-love, it is harder to spread that appreciation to someone else. After all, you can’t pour from a glass half empty.

Personal autonomy is “self-directing freedom and especially moral independence,” according to Merriam-Webster. When collective responsibility turns to negligence, we have the autonomy to stray away from groupthink, or the pressure to follow the beliefs of the masses to maintain harmony. Strong individualism is reflected in some of the most iconic historical figures. Corrie ten Boom,

for example, broke free from toxic groupthink in 1940s Germany by hiding Jewish families from Nazis rather than supporting her German neighbors in rallying for violence and discrimination. At 15 years old, Malala Yousafzai used her voice to speak out against gender inequality in school systems after being shot by a Taliban leader. Ten Boom, Yousafzai and countless other barrier-breaking leaders spotlight the importance of straying from the collective when injustice is present.

The clash between independence and interdependence surfaces various uncertainties; when does individualism become toxic? When should someone break tradition? Balancing individuality and collectivism is a tricky dynamic to juggle. Humans are exemplary at being individualistic, be it by looking out for themselves or acting on selfish instincts. Many find it more difficult to give up personal comfort for the greater good. Americans are recognized for their radical individualism. Independence, liberty and personal autonomy are freedoms that the United States proudly flaunts to the rest of the world. However, the “unity” aspect in the “United” States grows more ironic as Americans continue to wave personal freedoms as excuses for neglecting societal needs. Americans are rehearsed in turning the other way when others call out for help.

Collective prosperity is not a guarantee, but it’s more likely when we’re hand-in-hand. We’re all in the same boat: floating on a giant rock in the middle of the universe trying to make sense of the world around us. Why not live harmoniously as one body among the people who understand us the most? Pouring trust into others is difficult but rewarding. Personal goals often lineup with societal goals, and we all need each other to move forward. I’m an arm, you’re a leg and your neighbor is a hand. We all have a part to play — embrace it.

The state of society’s coral reef is up to us — do we allow our reef to grow discolored and lifeless? Or do we nurture the diverse, complex environment back into color? Discoloration is only permanent in the presence of inaction. You grab the shovel and I’ll grab the carbon activation — it’s time to reintroduce vibrancy to our reef.

SEA OF SELFISHNESS

BY KATRINA WHITE

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T

hough many assume that unconditional love is fundamental, love for everyone is utopian. Our society is composed of diverse communities possessing an expansive spread of expressions and interpretations; consequently, and wonderfully, the term “love” is layered. While English utilizes a singular term in the account for all of these intricacies, the ancient Greeks defined words that resembled the types of love, functioning to depose clarity. Studied for their sophisticated and reasoned approach toward manners of living, Greek recognizes an extensive list of expressions of love to this day, most prominently: eros, philia, storge, philautia and agape.

One who provides an all-encompassing, unconditional and sanctified benevolence for all, expounds agape love. The levels of maturity and selflessness conveyed through this love balances individuals between acceptance and rejection, unity and division, addition and omission. One must openly approach and consciously experiment with the other love types to uphold agape love.

Among these variants, eros places the heaviest focus on the physical body as opposed to the human mind. It accents intimate passions and sexual desires — the somatic results of affection — and is employed to deepen an already established connection between two individuals. Like an intense storm that softens into light showers, eros is powerful in its compassion, but its results are inconsequential. Though platonic, or “without physical attraction,” it is a viable state of love. Engaging in eros leaves one open to the chaos and selfishness that may intrude by taking part in heavily titillating relationships. If left dissatisfied, one may move forward and seek out a different love — an amicable love.

The focal point of philia, a love praised over eros, is friendship.

Though insufficient in physical modes of affection, philia suffices in ethics and equality. It diverges from eros by emphasizing a love that removes sexual drives and substitutes it with fellowship.

Physical manners are not vital to philias and, according to the Greeks, this fortitudinous form of sensual dispassion is virtuous.

Hidden within friendships are requisite elements that format the depth of maturity presented in agape. Philia provides us with a platform to expand our emotion of care and advance our ability to listen. Executed to help others while premeditated to heighten joyous sentiment, philia thrives on balance, agreeing with agape.

The familial bond formed by expressing love to your relatives

is demonstrative of storge, which concerns empathy and the development of familiarity and grows with time as memories are made; it is a constant flow of endearment between two or among a lineage of multiples. Storge upholds the potential to harmonize individuals and relieve disengagement from those separated by distance. Though the most attainable of the loves due to its familiarity, storge outlays a standard of understanding among differing dispositions that are exhibited throughout agape — thoroughgoing and unrestricted love.

Self-love. We as a collective have heard of this phrase and its significance. Philautia orbits around the certitude that one must love themself before loving another. In accepting yourself, you build courage and establish poise. When you become rooted within your inner being, you host the power to defend your peace from external, counterbalancing catalysts. Then, as an opportunity to venture into other love types arises, you carry with you a strong sense of self. You set your standards, ensure you are treated well and can conclude the validity of the love. In the journey toward developing agape, you must fulfill philautia, as this love allows one to advance through life escorted by profound compassion for others; you choose those who nurture your well-being and are a complement to relationship equity.

With every type of love, flaws tag along; storge and philia lack intimacy, philautia is confined to the self, and eros tends to lead with the heart while leaving the mind behind. Love can be both abused and cherished. But once familiar with these forms, one may master their pitfalls and manifest agape at its most monumental potential: love as a solution. Not used in remarks about romance or pruriency, nor amicable bonds, familial links or inner troth, and distinguished by its moral essence, agape fulfills devotion within the active mind. It is a decision made, a conscious endeavor for another’s greatest virtue, that bespeaks through action.

Don’t settle for one love. Go through life expanding upon all, and establish a closeness within yourself to be able to evolve love with others. Each type of love prompts appreciation for a different element of the mind and soul, the body and heart, the self and others. Those who opt out of choosing devotion toward reaching agape are stuck in a spinning cycle of relational disconnection. When we place our efforts toward agape, we master to understand ourselves and view those around us to their highest degree.

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BY SAMANTHA INSELBERG

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BY DANIELLA CONDE

SINCERELY YOURS THE IDENTITY CLUB STRIKE MAGAZINE | ISSUE 06 | 71

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“Y

ou see us as you want to see us: in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question?” - Brian Johnson, “The Breakfast Club” Who are you? What are you? Pick a box and put yourself in it — and don’t you dare try to come out. Society pesters you to label yourself because it makes your existence more palatable. When you claim a word you think describes you, you brand yourself with a classification that people can wield to prematurely judge you based on their own biases.

You begin to live this chosen identity and stop being cognizant of your complexities; however, you are too multifaceted to be solely defined by societal terms.

Every label and box bears restrictive beliefs we may not be conscious of. Before you know it, you may find yourself submerged in the depths of jumbled identifiers, fruitlessly grasping for individuality.

The unnecessary labels anchor you down, causing you to have a limited view of yourself and others.

The box is an algorithmic way of understanding people, but no one fits inside just one. Nerd, jock, gay, straight, pretty, ugly, skinny, fat, introverted, outgoing — we’ve all heard these descriptors, more often than not in a malignant manner. What is just a word can metamorphose into munitions, deployed to create and reinforce insecurities, stereotypes and stigma. Homosexual men do not exist to entertain society with their flamboyancy. Academics do not exist to be pitiable automatons, deemed incapable of desiring a life being the classroom. There is more than one path to personifying a particular characteristic.

We have been trained to accept these cut-and-dried illustrations because they make people predictable.

No one should feel like a fraud for emerging from the chrysalis of an outdated characteristic and choosing to embody a new identity. It is not a design flaw; it is wiser than perpetual sameness.

Our brains may be wired to incessantly search for shortcuts, but human beings will never fit into pretty little packages. We can be anxious and relaxed; pensive and lighthearted; introverted and extroverted; creative and analytical — contradictory characteristics complete us.

But how can we extend grace to ourselves and others when we are compelled to fit the mold? There are no step-by-step instructions guaranteed to help us shed the characterizations that have been imposed upon us. However, we can begin to navigate this unpredictable process by tuning in to the innermost parts of ourselves.

Start by asking yourself the following questions: What labels do you claim? Do those labels represent how others see you, or how you see yourself? Do those labels serve you, or do you serve them? Despite these questions’ potential to propel you into an existential crisis, you owe yourself an answer to them. Once you externalize what does not serve you, a living, breathing soul can flourish from a previously barren landscape of lifeless identifiers.

The human experience is not stagnant: Identity development is a never-ending process. Changing your beliefs about yourself can allow you to see the kaleidoscopic spirit you were burying below the unnecessary labels. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for being who you are, and you shouldn’t feel coerced into inhibiting your ingenuity. Your individuality is not anyone else’s to speculate on: Strut through the field of authenticity and raise your fist indignantly. Most importantly, don’t you forget about yourself.

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BY CAROLINE WEBB

F

or a moment, I was weightless. Stripped naked, suspended in saltwater, I floated in complete darkness — no noise to be heard but the thoughts in my head. This practice, known as sensory deprivation, eliminates all external stimuli and seeks to put the body in a therapeutic state of relaxation.

Its health benefits, ranging from increased athletic performance to anxiety reduction, are often touted by its enthusiasts. The experience felt more like meditation than a spa treatment.

Though touched by no one, I left feeling massaged. Tension was released from my being, and my mind had been emptied — in a serene state, I was restored.

Sensory deprivation’s impact is impressive for not only its acclaimed health benefits but for its capacity to reveal a grander disconnection. A moment of peace feels restorative, as we’ve been starved of stillness and connection. We crave the feeling of rich soil between our toes and the wondrous whisper of the wind; the grounding sensitivity of being part of something greater.

Conversely, eight-hour workdays inundated with blue light and video calls are vapid from an aerial view. Our true reality lies in the one we have so far removed ourselves from, surrounding us in nature and extending to the

universe beyond.

Modern life can feel like a desperate attempt to distance ourselves from the reality that humans are a minuscule dot in this expanse.

We may believe the world to be under our control, but no matter how hard we fight it, we are forever entangled in the wild web of the cosmos. Searching for tranquility exclusively within ourselves is a losing battle, one that will leave us drifting aimlessly through the void. Harmony, instead, can be acquired in the knowledge of connectedness: we are not a human experiencing the universe, but the universe experiencing humanity.

Reframing our minds to view life through this lens brings a sense of joy and belonging; it aligns and unites us with the environment around us. Everything feels part of one another; the golden touch of the sun, the unfettered flow of every stream, the olden oaks anchoring the Earth, the starlings serenading at dawn, and the melody of birds welcoming the morning.

Here, we find strength as one alongside these simple wonders because, we too, are of them.

By stripping ourselves of outward noise, we can reconnect to the majestic sensations of the universe. All we have to do is take the plunge.

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STRIKE MAGAZINE | ISSUE 06 | 77

F

or a moment, I was weightless. Stripped naked, suspended in saltwater, I floated in complete darkness — no noise to be heard but the thoughts in my head. This practice, known as sensory deprivation, eliminates all external stimuli and seeks to put the body in a therapeutic state of relaxation.

Its health benefits, ranging from increased athletic performance to anxiety reduction, are often touted by its enthusiasts. The experience felt more like meditation than a spa treatment.

Though touched by no one, I left feeling massaged. Tension was released from my being, and my mind had been emptied — in a serene state, I was restored.

Sensory deprivation’s impact is impressive for not only its acclaimed health benefits but for its capacity to reveal a grander disconnection. A moment of peace feels restorative, as we’ve been starved of stillness and connection. We crave the feeling of rich soil between our toes and the wondrous whisper of the wind; the grounding sensitivity of being part of something greater.

Conversely, eight-hour workdays inundated with blue light and video calls are vapid from an aerial view. Our true reality lies in the one we have so far removed ourselves from, surrounding us in nature and extending to the

universe beyond.

Modern life can feel like a desperate attempt to distance ourselves from the reality that humans are a minuscule dot in this expanse.

We may believe the world to be under our control, but no matter how hard we fight it, we are forever entangled in the wild web of the cosmos. Searching for tranquility exclusively within ourselves is a losing battle, one that will leave us drifting aimlessly through the void. Harmony, instead, can be acquired in the knowledge of connectedness: we are not a human experiencing the universe, but the universe experiencing humanity.

Reframing our minds to view life through this lens brings a sense of joy and belonging; it aligns and unites us with the environment around us. Everything feels part of one another; the golden touch of the sun, the unfettered flow of every stream, the olden oaks anchoring the Earth, the starlings serenading at dawn, and the melody of birds welcoming the morning.

Here, we find strength as one alongside these simple wonders because, we too, are of them.

By stripping ourselves of outward noise, we can reconnect to the majestic sensations of the universe. All we have to do is take the plunge.

LETTERS F R O M T H E EDITORS

Dear Strike Staff, Destination: a place where one journeys to or where someone is sent. When I joined Strike six issues ago, I considered Gainesville an unknown destination. I was sent here for college as a frightened freshman who was unaware of the trials and wonders ahead. Throughout my journey with Strike, I evolved into an emboldened, confident woman – one my younger self would surely be proud of. With every issue, Strike encouraged and challenged me outside of my comfort zone. I’ve learned to embrace what makes me striking and celebrate the striking attributes of those around me.

Thank you to every current and past staff member who has unintentionally inspired me and influenced my perspective on fashion, art and the world. Thank you Hanna Gibson, Ashley West and Annie Ortega for believing in that scared freshman three years ago in an interview at Starbucks. Thank you to the External Affairs Team for their endless fervor, enthusiasm and dedication. Thank you to Annie and Erin for pouring their hearts into the past two issues with me.

Leaving Gainesville and Strike behind is terrifying. However, as I am sent to another destination unknown, I reflect on my Strike journey with abundant gratitude and love for every moment, person and issue that shaped me into the most striking version of myself.

EXTERNAL AFFAIRS DIRECTOR

Dear Strike Staff, Humbled. Humbled is the only word that fully encapsulates how I feel walking out of this season. Leading this team for the past three years has been incredibly challenging and rewarding. Serving as Co-Founder, Director of External Affairs, and now Editor-in-Chief has played an immense role in shaping who I am at the end of my college experience.

I am forever grateful for the countless individuals who I learned from and grew alongside over the past three years.

Whether I met you in Starbucks back in 2018 or on Zoom in 2021, I have never left a Strike meeting feeling anything short of inspired. Thank you to every staff member who, over the years, saw our vision and made it their own. Being a witness to your growing loyalty, dedication, hard work and creativity will always be one of my greatest treasures.

Thank you to Hannah Kealy for trusting freshman Annie with the enormous role of Co-Founder and Director of External Affairs. Thank you Hanna Gibson and Ashley West for being the other thirds of an unbreakable trio for the first two years, and for paving the way for me to transition into Editor-in-Chief so seamlessly. Thank you Maddy Whalen and Erin Hu for being on the receiving end of my many frantic text messages, for always picking up the pace, giving grace and caring about the details.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

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PROSPECTION MILES MILLER

DEPL ETION ALEX BALENO LULI HAYS

HARMONY

NIKOLAI SOROKO

CLAYTON BUSH HANA ELKADY CARTER GOODMAN FAITH MANITI LIZZY ODOM

BUSINESSES

IMPULSE NUTRITION LAUREL OAK INN TEASTORI THE BOX GAINESVILLE

THANK

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YOU

TO

OUR MODELS AND BUSINESSES

FOR

YOUR SUPPORT IN US AND IN OUR

C R E AT I V E ENDEAVORS

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