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Edition #4
Fates and Choices
Alitza Nichole
Edited by Elizabeth Rose

Justice and the Magician: the last generation of morality and fear.

This story is not about love, but about loving oneself remotely and holistically through detachment and observation. As I am writing, memories are weaved into a poem. Aware that our minds are taught to recognise the sensation of living, through the metaphors built as a consequence of seeing, I attempt to deliver a written image, drafted from the spaces of interpretation.

I hope you can see that you are not alone in the path to understanding, how can you love and fear humanity at the same time?

                                               In our phones, in our memories and in our walls, we may carry the images that thread the spaces we long for, when reality becomes too loud.

Life, until this moment, has been about sculpting the soul through grief and about threading the pieces with compassion.

So, the people stayed silent, it was the wind yelling desperately as the hurricane came. Although it has a human name, its movement remains phenomenal. Life is in constant flux and chaos seems progressively recognizable and all too familiar. We all are tired of being resilient. The concept was conceived to exploit will, as after change we will never return to an original form.

Is there an original form, or are we just part of the natural condition of perpetual change?

She opened her legs and screamed.

Giving birth was, in a way, letting herself die.

Who will she be tomorrow? When this other feeds from her.

Is it her pleasure to keep reproducing, or his pleasure to keep practicing?

What is it all for? Who will hold us when fear takes our form?

                                               We all wish to be held in the comforting forever that will only return as fleeting, delicate moments we will wish to not lose.

Here at the crossroads of good and evil is where the fates test you.

                           Am I to love myself enough to smile, even when nobody else sees how each beat of my heart makes the tongue of the candle flutter without wind?

Communities are made through grief. Losing precipitates bridges between humans on foundations of fate, death or even a traitor’s smile. Maybe, the gaps we seek to fill with light aren’t always touched by the sun. Spaces where absence is felt, become the architecture of presence. This is how we create spaces of meaning. I am telling you, I will not always be here waiting for your move, as my memory will become part of the collective sea of stories that eventually will be lost to history’s golden knife.

Am I strong enough to greet the virgin Mary’s hugs when my mother wouldn’t hold me?

You are not alone -

So many of us are found when we are lost.

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started to peel the skin that was made of doubts when maturity was showing. I can’t explain it, but I also nurtured my organs when rearranging my interior. Sometimes, I believe, the structure of my being is composed of collected songs, laughter and smiles that built me a body when I felt none. Of course, my face became a cascade of illusions lost to mistakes as I told my brain to forget, while I reformulated myself.

Slow, patient, and sweet, I am not like how the honey drips. I am stronger, I am surer.

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                           In the desert, filled only with emotions, I found myself a servant of humanity. While my heart beats, time surrenders the rest of me. Hoping one day somebodies become a body.

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Artist: Jose Vega, Puerto Rico.
Title: La Emperatriz (2022)
Pastel Drawing on tinted paper, 27cm x 35cm​

In Spanish we have different words to describe the degree of love we have for you, but not that many to describe fear. Fate brought me here, to you, maybe to give you an angle on life. I feel like disruptions are an opportunity to contemplate how you can exist in two places at once. The unknown could be a potential place, and in it you’ll perform to the extent you can, persistent in the unknowable, until you can claim that place as known, the borders of the mystery space receding ever across the horizon. As we enter the known, knowing what we do, we become easily recognizable to others.

Curious how coming from an island I became one.

                                                            They all have seen parts of me that feel like a woman. My breast, the curves of my skin, my smile, the way my hair becomes tangled with the wind and lost in their clothes. Feeling as a woman can also be forgotten when the culture of what a woman means becomes unrecognizable in the forms we manifest throughout a convoluted life.

They have felt me woman enough to desire me but have not recognized the familiar culture within me to love me with compassion.

History keeps forgetting those who are deemed to reconfigure themselves upon unforeseeable change within the known spaces of representation, familiarization, and associations.

The act of reshaping values asks for some form of surrender. Formulating new bodies of culture may not only feed from the tangible

bodies that only value what they can consume and incorporate in their ways of being.

When people become places, you get to walk in a sea of their morals, traverse past sites describable only by verbs that may take other directions that your body wouldn’t dare to. You think you are from another nature? I am just saying that, as you observe, we are each and all a different sameness as those whose roots thrive on another soil or in another sea.

Are we the last generation without fear of the unknown?

Or do we guess we are well informed?

Fate will show you in an inevitable moment what memories should be forged. Without consequence of an image and without that which sadness may have torn. We, the beloved children of technology, could seek to feel beyond the significance of meanings, representations and constructed associations as a feed unfolds. Because history still aims to be built from the voices that won't dare to question wrongs.

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