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My interest in literature was not born when I saw the light for the first time or when I started writing. Literature was born when I learned that a simple action can limit your dreams and the emergence of your being. When I was a child I became ill with something that at first seemed to be nothing bad, but eventually pushed me to the limit of my hopes. I didn't know what I had and neither did my parents. That yellow tone in my skin distinguished me from the healthy ones. The illness was momentary, but at the same time hard. I began my rest by stopping going to school, abandoning my classroom and my siblings and parents with it. My illness prevented me from taking care of the children and my sister's childhood. I settled in a room with four walls where darkness and solitude were my best allies. My mother and father never left me alone, every breakfast, lunch and dinner I would lovingly observe each one's face, I could not eat with them but I could contemplate their existence. - This would not last long. My mother told me My believing self resurfaced with those words, hope returned from where it left off and the possibilities of moving forward arose as never before. But boredom took hold of me, I didn't know what to do other than sleep and play. Although I was very critical from a very young age, I attributed it to the debates that went on in my family and not to books, because I read them for school. As my greatest hobby was pottery, which I could no longer touch or look at. One of those cold and boring days. My older sister came with many books. She watched me and did not hesitate to mention that each book contained a world inside. I didn't save the best reaction because I always considered books as tools for school and not for a being who was locked up. As time went by my being sought the need for distraction but not with books. - Not with that. I mentioned madly Every moment was torture, until my curious instinct awakened the intention to see only the cover of the books and if there was the need to read, it would be the books with pictures. I started with the book "El chibolo Pilas", interesting, but very fast to read, that work, kept everything that its title says, a boy who was looking for happiness, but was misunderstood in the world. Then, I was interested in reading a story titled "The Dolphin", those pages full of letters and images awakened my desire to read even more, I understood how the human being seeks the meaning of life, the importance of perseverance and faith, that faith that I lacked and had to develop. Allowing me to know new worlds from my room was the beginning of the being I am now. Books introduced me to literature and the power to imagine a comfortable environment for myself. When I was able to heal and return to my reality again, I began to read not out of necessity, but out of interest for my personal growth. Books were not a problem, but a solution. Perhaps if I had not become ill, it would have taken me a long time to recognize the greatness of letters and images.

The Sick Child has very defined brush strokes, and this is something that stays prevalent throughout all of the times he redid it. There is a lot of green and yellow, which represent sickness and dying (Heer), throughout the painting, but we see some strokes of red and orange around the painting as well. These represent hemoptysis, the blood coming from the child's lungs, which is typical in late-stage tuberculosis (Heer). Instead of having obvious splatters of blood, Munch just has small lines of red here and there more subtly, showing that consumption kills you quietly and lingers in the air after it's done. Munch described this painting as a “breakthrough” in his art (Vermeer). Even though it was not well received by critics, it helped him decide to lean more towards expressionism than impressionism in his art for the rest of his career (Vermeer). This was beneficial to him, as the technique helped him to later make his most famous painting, The Scream. Munch ended up redoing this work several times throughout the course of his life as an artist. He said, “I reworked the picture countless times in the course of a year—scratched it out—allowed it to infuse the paint medium—struggling again and again to recapture the first impression—its translucency—the pale skin towards the canvas, the trembling lips, the trembling hands” (Heer). He wanted to get the feeling and image of his sister dying just right, showing his and his aunt Karen's emotions as perfectly as possible, even in the first few years. He painted it for the first time in 1886, nine years after the event happened. He made a lithograph of it in 1894, and redid it in paint in 1896, twice in 1907, in 1925, and in 1927. He was obsessed with getting this work just right, saying, “I am convinced that there is hardly a painter among them who drained his subject to the very last bitter drop as I did in The Sick Child. It was not only I myself sitting there – it was all my loved ones” (Heer). He felt as though as long as he was reworking the painting, his loved ones who had died, including his mother, sister, and aunt, were still with him. Redoing this painting over and over helped him to heal emotionally from the trauma of his sister's death. Overall, The Sick Child is an amazing piece, showcasing exactly how the artist felt at the time, and how a lot of families and relatives of ill people felt throughout the tuberculosis epidemic. Munch felt that there was no hope left in the world after his sister died except through art, specifically this piece, so he redid it over and over again, ending up with more than six finished oil paintings (“The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch”). It helped him to heal and also to figure out what he really wanted his paintings to be like, what techniques and styles to use in his future pieces. He redid this painting a lot over 40 years, and was able to really make it convey exactly what he wanted it to. This piece goes to show that even when tragedy strikes, you can use it to make something of yourself, and if you happen to be an artist, you can make truly heart-wrenching art from it. Works Cited “Edvard Munch | The Sick Child.” The Metropolitan Museum of Art, http://metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/669368. Accessed 30 March 2023. Heer, Sati. “The Sick Child: Edvard, empathy and expertise.” UNEXAMINED MEDICINE, 17 April 2021, https://unexaminedmedicine.org/2021/04/17/the-sick-child-edvard-empathy-and-expertise/. Accessed 30 March 2023. Paulson, Noelle. “Munch, The Scream (article).” Khan Academy, https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/ap-art-history/later-europe-and-americas/modernity-ap/a/munch-the-scream. Accessed 7 April 2023. “The Sick Child.” Munchmuseet, https://www.munchmuseet.no/en/our-collection/the-sick-child/. Accessed 6 April 2023. “The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch.” Edvard Munch, https://www.edvardmunch.org/the-sick-child.jsp. Accessed 28 March 2023. Vermeer, Johannes. “The Sick Child (Det Syke Barn): Munch's Most Important Painting.” Artsapien, 1 May 2021, https://artsapien.com/2021/05/the-sick-child/. Accessed 7 April 2023.

A child, 14, sits in his room. Quarantine has taken a toll, stealing away the ability to socialize with friends and the opportunity to learn at in-person schools. Life has begun to become boring, mundane, borderline useless. Being so young when COVID hits is a challenge. What are you meant to do? There wasn't much freedom to speak of before, and now it's all gone. One of the only things you can do at the moment, such an isolated time, is go online. He makes many online friends during quarantine that help sustain his wellbeing. Posting drawings on social media to show friends and mutuals replaces socializing in real life. The thing that's most different is that now, our hero enjoys learning. Research on Google becomes an outlet for him. He discovers a love for history this way, looking up facts about cowboys and about Victorian princes. He learns many interesting things and, in researching the late 1700s, discovers his new favorite thing; something that nobody in their right mind would enjoy. Tuberculosis. Everything about the pulmonary disease is extremely interesting to him. It begins with a fascination in hemoptysis, coughing up blood, then snowballs. Watching documentaries, reading informational books online, discovering more and more articles on the subject, the ancient disease becomes his lifeblood. He no longer feels so bored with life. He discovers that several fictional books about Tuberculosis exist, both contemporary and vintage, ones which tell stories about interesting characters in and out of sanatoriums. It inspires him to read again for the first time in three years. He has again found something worth spending time on. Learning about Tuberculosis becomes an unlikely source of happiness, one that will last for years to come. He finds a lot of enjoyment in researching the infectious disease, talking about it, watching videos that mention it. He has finally begun to discover himself.

My first reaction to the pandemic on March 12, 2020--after securing toilet paper and hand sanitizer--was to help my family and the nonprofits I was working with weather the storm. “It's only for two weeks,” everyone said. “It's going to be so much longer than that,” I said. “And, the effects will last for years.” Turns out, the pandemic itself was going to last for years. By nature, I'm a planner. I like to have a strategy. Even if crazy things happen, if you have a plan, you can pivot. The early days of the pandemic drove me to my computer. I made lists. I'm a big list-maker. I already had a solid plan in place for the nonprofits before the pandemic hit, so I wasn't worried about that. If they stayed the course and remained proactive, they would be fine. Becoming reactive would have been a disaster. At home, my parents had recently moved in with me after selling their house. They have never been worriers or list makers or planners. While my kitchen pantry upstairs was prepped with at least two weeks of food that we could survive on, theirs was bare. Up until COVID-19, my prepping was in anticipation of a blizzard or power outage, not a global pandemic. Did my parents have canned goods? No. They picked up fast food or did take out every day for nearly every meal. Did they have a supply of toilet paper and paper towels? No. Were they worried? No. I was. At my computer, I had lists of what we needed to do to get ahead of this crisis. I had never pre-ordered and picked up groceries before but in our new contactless world, it was heaven-sent. Of course, I went right to Amazon to order masks, gloves, disinfectant, and later, when I became really COVID-savvy, a digital, no contact thermometer and a pulse oximeter. And then, the world froze. No one was going in to work anymore. The stores were empty and the shelves were bare. I no longer had to think of excuses to get out of my over-committed weekends. Suddenly, there were no plans. I had everything I needed. My lovable dog, Toby, was by my side every day. I saw my masked niece and family in socially distanced gatherings from ten feet away in driveways and on decks. My friends and I Zoomed. My neighbors group texted and did porch drop-offs of freshly baked bread and goodies. I signed up for online yoga, painting classes, interesting virtual tours of fascinating places in the world, read books, cleaned my house, and watched YouTube videos on how to cut my own hair, which was not my best idea. I used to cherish days when I didn't have to drive to work, saving me sometimes two or more hours of commute time. I always wondered what I would do with extra time. Would I exercise and eat right? (The answer to that is a resounding “no”.) Writing has always been something I've enjoyed. Sometimes, if something bad happened in my life, I would imagine a story inspired by the true events. Only, I'd make it twisty. If someone was a jerk to me, well a character inspired by that person might find themselves killed off in the story, involved in a ridiculous crime, or on the receiving end of sweet karma. Or I would see something happen in real life--maybe a near-miss car accident, or someone buying a winning lottery ticket after they changed places in line, or a stray cat whose eyes told me that he had an interesting story--and I would imagine and wonder “what would happen if” and then I'd write a story about it. I never did anything with the stories and most times they went unfinished. Just the act of writing was therapeutic. I'd always said that if I had the time, I would write. Not just for work, but for fun. Write just for me. Suddenly, the pandemic gave me time--all the time in the world. I was out of excuses. So I started to write. I found a short story contest to enter. Normally, I'm a pretty competitive person. I like to win. But in this case, I was well aware that I was a novice. Knowing this was my first try, I didn't have my usual high expectations or hopes of winning. I was looking at it as a learning experience. I would see if there was any feedback--if they said, “Don't give up your day job” or “Nice effort, try again.” And then came the phone call. My story was chosen for publication in an anthology. It didn't win one of the cash prizes or earn a judges' award, but that was alright. I was going to be a published author! I know I will continue working in the nonprofit field because, after thirty years, it's part of who I am. But now, part of me is an author too. I have a plan. I can see myself, in my retirement years, sitting at my antique desk in front of a big window overlooking the ocean or a tranquil lake with a beautiful sunset in the distance writing--who knows maybe even finishing a book. But I'll be doing the thing I didn't know I could do until the world temporarily closed.

I can't remember the first time I experienced the cognitive dissonance of looking at my body and knowing logically it was mine yet feeling like it was a completely separate entity from my inner world, but I remember the first time I tried to talk about it with someone. I couldn't have been more than seven or eight. This was before the impending deaths of my father and grandfather, and my grandparents were driving me back home after a weekend spent staring at the opium weights they had purchased on a trip somewhere in South Asia. My gaze remained steady as I listened to my grandfather's stories about his time in a camp in WWII, his voice trembling as he vacillated between dark jokes and terrorized tears. My grandmother always said he never left. It was as sunny as always as we turned down the street in San Diego where I spent most of my childhood, claustrophobically so. I peered out the window at a plastic green lawn then down to my hands and thighs, a familiar dissociation overwhelming me as I flexed my tiny fingers, examining the peeling skin around nails I bit so short that they bled. My wrists were always bleeding too, along with the back of my knees and the tender skin around my chapped lips, symptoms of my eczema. Even with medical creams underneath layers of bandages, I still scratched while I slept, ripping myself open over and over. I wonder now if I was trying to penetrate this flesh in an attempt to find some connection to this mind underneath. I'm reading a book about trauma called The Body Keeps the Score. One scientific study found a correlation between autoimmune disorders and significant past traumatic events. These events set off a fight or flight response, and the body can overcompensate so greatly that it begins attacking itself. Eczema is an autoimmune disorder. My recollections of my childhood are shrouded, vague shapes, but mostly obscured. This memory in the car is one of the few I have. Maybe this can be attributed to it being a key exemplifying moment of the disconnection I always felt between both pieces of myself and between myself and others. As I gazed at my tiny thighs- how strange it was that they were so slight! Microscopic in the scope of this planet- I asked my grandparents if they too looked in the mirror and saw foreign beings staring back. I assumed it must be universal, and I wanted to understand why it happened and how to cope with it. My grandmother said she had no idea what I was talking about. I now understand that this fracture was made sometime during the course of my life and is not an intrinsic state, but it's still hard to fathom the idea that most people have never experienced this sensation. I don't remember a time where it wasn't always occurring to some extent at any given moment whether I'm thinking about it- naming it- or not. Even when I do not give it attention or words, it scuttles around in the background of my consciousness. I've found ways to alleviate some of the most distressing aspects of this reality. Tiny needles filled with ink have penetrated my skin, depicting visions congruent with my inner world, reminders that this body is mine. As they increase, so does the reassurance that I'm connected to these limbs. Still, there have been times when the chasm between here and there have felt deeper, even recently. Last spring I spent exactly seventy days alone. Towards the end of this period I was tormented by a delusion I knew to be intellectually impossible, yet some part of me still felt it was real, like experiencing fear while watching a horror movie. You know it isn't happening, but it doesn't stop the nightmares. It consisted of the idea that if I was to look in the mirror I would see nothing there. If I looked at my limbs, they'd disappear before my eyes. The only thing confirming my existence was the heaving inhalation and exhalation of the walls of my apartment. Weeks of words unspoken can make you wonder if you're real. What is the difference between me alive and me dead if there is no evidence that I'm still here besides my own perception? I've come to the conclusion that seeking this sort of reassurance that I'm real from others is futile. When I think of that moment in the car, I am most struck by how much more isolated I felt when there was no solidarity, even lonelier than the seventy days I spent alone. Now I'm trying to connect the veins that pump blood through my body to the veins where intangible, hidden, ancient parts of my being reside. Just as my body is mine and mine alone, so too are the chasms. I'm the only one who can navigate them. I'm hoping someday that this archeological dig through my consciousness that I've embarked on might make me feel present in this corporeal form. It hasn't happened yet, but I'm starting to become the understanding adult the seven year old inside me still aches for. This body might still feel like a complete stranger sometimes, but she doesn't.

The sun was high up in the sky, shining with all its warm glory. I was sitting with my legs crossed on the floor of my room right under the air conditioner, reading. This amount of heat was not a unique sight during the month of June in Delhi. An ideal summer. What else would a just-turned teenager be doing in her summer break? Here I was, enjoying the last of my summer vacation, unaware that my life was about to be changed, entirely. Before long, the sun had started moving to the west and I decided that this was a good time to go cycling with my sister. My sister is younger than me by four years but we are each other's best friends. While I do have some really close friends from school, none have been with me as long as her. After about three quarters of an hour cycling around the neighborhood, I tediously dragged her back to the house. Usually we would have stayed out longer, but not today. Today papa would be returning early and I had to make some serious plans with him. Of course, I couldn't tell this to my sister because then it wouldn't remain a surprise when it was actually her birthday. As anticipated, our dad came back early. It seemed that he was just as excited as me which was a little rude since it showed that he liked my younger sister better. But I let it slide this time. He took off his shoes and was getting freshened up; with me waiting outside his door as a person who really wanted to use the washroom would. As soon as he was done changing, I took him to his room and began flooding him with ideas for what we could do on my sister's birthday. Only he (politely) shut me down immediately. Huh! Had he already made the plans without even including me? I thought. In a still excited tone he said “Calm down, we'll talk about this later. I need to tell you guys something. Let's go out in the living room.” He had to tell us something? But what? Curiously, I followed him. My mom was busy preparing the dinner and my sister staring at the television. My dad went ahead and retrieved some papers from his office bag. He went into the kitchen with me still following him at his tail. He asked my mom to join us outside to which she replied “I am not done with the dinner yet. Can this wait?” Apparently, it couldn't. So, there we were, the entire family sitting in the living room. My dad handed over the papers to my mom and she read. Now me and my sister were both baffled. We tried peeking over our mother's shoulder but before we could get a good look, my mom let out a loud gasp. What was happening? Our parents rejoiced while we just stared at them. After about a minute of this, our dad told us. “I have an interview at our bank's headquarters in Kolkata. They believe that I have been performing really well and now that I have cleared promotional exams, they really suggest I should give the interview.” Okay, so they were just excited about his promotion. I was expecting something more eventful but this could work too. My dad continued “and if I get selected after the interview phase, we could potentially be transferred to Hong Kong.” Okay, what!? Now it was me and my sister's turn to freak out. We could live in Hong Kong? We who had never even set foot outside of our country? This was surreal. I didn't even know that papa's bank had branches in places besides India. My sister and I hugged our dad so hard that we almost knocked him over. The rest of the day (which was only a couple of hours) was spent as we would on a festival. Soon enough, it was time for our dad's interview. We think he had prepared really well for it but wished him lots of luck nevertheless. He returned after two days and informed us that he thought he did well too. We had gotten our hopes up really high and it was not futile. He received the letter days later informing him that he had been selected to work at the Hong Kong branch for his bank and that we had to leave in a month. I don't think I had ever been so sad and excited all at the same time. On one hand, I was getting the opportunity of living outside of India and gaining so many new experiences. On the other hand, however, I had to leave behind so much and so quickly that it made my heart ache. Although I would have my family when moving to a completely new place, I would be leaving behind my two best friends from school (quite possibly the best people I have ever met so far). Throughout my childhood, I had moved from city to city and had to build my whole social life from scratch every time that happened. The thought of going through that one more time overpowered the dopamine rush from hearing such good news. I went through some serious brooding and heartfelt goodbyes after a crazy last month but it wasn't all bad. I constantly reminded myself that I could keep in touch with friends here and make new friends in Hong Kong and that everything will be fine. Turns it out, it was true. To gain something means to lose something else. It just depends on how you look at it.

I watched joy bubble in her heart as she said "I Do" to the love of her life. I could feel her happiness as she stared into his eyes and envisioned the start of a good life with the only man that swept her off her feet. Her smile was infectious and broad, reaching her eyes and spreading throughout her features as she had eyes for only one man, the man whom she would build a new world with, whom she would cherish for a lifetime and grow old in his arms. He drew her close and kissed her full on the lips when the Reverend said "you may kiss the bride" and we all applauded. The occasion was a memorable one and my best friend Vera was married to Vandy as he was fondly called in the full presence of her family and friends who wished the new couple nothing but love and happiness in their new home. Sadly, that happiness was short lived and replaced with visits to the hospital a few days after the wedding. Doctors appointments took over the honeymoon, kisses were replaced with prayers for recovery, life plans were replaced with charts for medication and together forever grew farther away as his health didn't improve. That fateful morning greeted me with news so heart wrenching that I couldn't help the tears that spilled out. She told me that her Vandy was gone, never to speak words of endearment to her, never to hold her lovingly and share dreams with her, never to touch her passionately and grow old with her, never to smile again and share this world with her. She was heartbroken and distraught, in denial and pain, shock and disbelief as she watched life take away someone so precious to her and her heart broke over and over again. How are you doing Vera? I asked, her only reply is to burst into tears and say, "my sugar is no longer in this world". Days passed as preparations to lay him to rest commenced and I watched my dear friend transition from a young twenty three year old lady to a widow mourning her husband one month after she tied the knot. As tradition would have it, she had her head shaved, she wore black clothes, she was holed up inside surrounded by older women who comforted and guided her through all the procedures. It was devastating to watch my beautiful, fun loving, energetic and vibrant best friend lose her light and vigour because life stole something precious from her. She was mandated to stay indoors, to avoid the backlash and stigma that would follow such an untimely and unexpected experience. My best friend matured before my eyes as she found courage to mourn the loss of her husband, endure the probing eyes and side talks, sneers and insinuation from people who think they are saints and god's. I could feel her sorrow behind the calm lifeless smile she shared with people around her, I could tell she was scared and confused, she was alone and drowning in the uncertainties of what to come after everything. That experience was a hellish one for someone as young as she to go through and I know she still struggles with it everyday of her life. To my best friend Vera, you are the strongest woman I know. You have endured more than any young woman I have ever met and you came out brave and strong. In the face of all that you went through you never grew cold or let the emotions bury you under its crushing weight because you kept fighting back. You are a conqueror and a queen, you rose about your pain and fought to be a part of this world and enjoy what life holds in store for you. I admire you my dearest and I pray in my next world to know a friend like you. You will love again, you will feel loved again, which won't make you love Vandy any less or forget him in an Instant. He is always in our hearts and I bet he wants you to find someone special to love and cherish with all your heart. Smile for the world to see that you pulled through, that you persevered and came out better and stronger. Smile for the world to know that you are not afraid to love again. Smile for me to show me that you are okay and moving on. My dearest Vera, this tribute is for you. Thank you for being the strongest woman I know. Your best friend, Jane.

Let's say you're lost in the woods. Again. So, you check your phone. Great, no signal. Shocker. But wait! Your mom made you bring that ridiculous old map! You pull it out of your backpack and unfold it. And unfold it. And unfold. Unfold. Unfold. How big can this thing get? Unfold. One last time? Unfold, and nope. Unfold again. Okay! It's open! That's when it strikes you. The sheer size of the map, the way the paper crinkles when you flick your wrist to straighten it—it makes you feel something. It's almost ethereal. The yellow paper is covered in lines going all which ways in varying colors; their direction indecipherable upon first glance. You lay the map down on the leaf-covered forest floor and manage to pinpoint where you are on the map, somehow. You're surrounded by inked-in trees with their green hue no more than a highlight. You'd never take them for trees if there was no legend in the corner. Among all the trees and roads and rivers and ponds and bridges and parks, you're such a small dot on the map. It puts the size of the whole world into perspective. But enough existential crises for the day, after all, you went to the woods to avoid one, right? As you're looking at the map, you notice a small town nearby. But it can't be there, right? You came from that direction. Oh, if only you knew about paper towns. But you don't. So you fold the map up and head in the direction of the copyright trap, doomed to forever roam the woods. That's the beauty of maps. They're so reliable, and yet you still need to have your own knowledge and logicality. Most people use maps as a means to an end, but few truly appreciate their beauty. No one uses paper maps anymore. Most use phones or mobile GPS devices, but this also takes away a lot of beauty. Imagine the crinkling of the paper while it's being unfolded, or the soft brushing noise it makes when you lay it flat. GPS can't do that. The feeling evoked when using a paper map… it's unlike anything else. Nearly indescribable. It's the feeling of reuniting with our past. When a map is opened, the world is, too. You can suddenly imagine you're in another time. Imagine another life. No longer are you a generation z college student in 2020 on the way to an off-the-beaten-path park, you're now a flower child in the 70s on your way to Woodstock, navigating while your boyfriend drives the car. Your feet are up on the dash and the paper is rose-colored by your tinted glasses. This is the power that paper maps have. When they're opened, it sparks nostalgia and hiraeth. It sparks a longing for something that we've never experienced, but that we somehow know. The crinkling. The feeling of when the pads of your fingertips brush on its surface, looking for something. When it unfolds to larger than life proportions, and yet barely even shows any of our huge world. GPS is meager in comparison, but it allows for a different beauty. More than once I've driven down unfamiliar roads and taken random turns with the windows down and the wind blowing and the music loud. You feel free with no plans and no direction. It's an open road. Making decisions with the flip of a coin, the pick of a hat, or, hell, even meenie miney moe. When you're ready to journey home, if you're ever ready, you simply turn on the GPS to your address and go home. When the GPS turns on, the magic vanishes. It's as if bringing flame near fairies. The magic is yanked away and reality returns. There are no more random turns. There are no more mysterious roads. There is no unknown destination. The adventure is over when you know the way back home. Statistica.com says that nearly half of all people use GPS as a form of navigation, which seems low for the busyness of our world. Everyone is about the destination. There's no care for the journey. The device guides a lost person with its robotic, monotone voice, while cars honk and people shout and static plays on the radio and air conditioner blows and passengers talk and the world is loud. Now go back. Go back to the thought of the wind and music and endless possibilities. Go back to when you were driving with the direction of random odds. Nothing compares. While GPS allows for such freedom, it is also the reason for the end of it.

When I was in seventh grade, I took an aptitude test that told me I should seek out a career as a butcher. This seemed like a shocking conclusion since, to my memory, none of the questions gauged my knife skills (poor) or my interest in animal entrails (quite low). In an act of defiance, I bucked my destiny and went on to get a bachelor's degree in Communications. My first job was with an arts organization run by a married couple. David and Elle were “free spirits” who tried to hide their entitlement behind eccentricity and pass off their lack of personal or professional boundaries as avant-garde. A couple of months into my tenure, the office was abuzz. World-renowned cellist Yo-Yo Ma was in town and would be dining at the home of my bosses. “Jen, you and Therese will need to go to our house to meet the caterers soon, so they can set up for dinner,” Elle informed my supervisor as she flitted manically around the office. “By the way,” she said with an air of forced casualness, “we've been having a bit of a…ladybug problem. So, if you happen to see any, just vacuum them up, if you could.” She hurried away as Jen and I exchanged raised eyebrows. David and Elle lived in an affluent suburb about 40 minutes outside of the city, in a mansion full of sleek, brightly colored furniture and peppered with experimental (read: nude) art. The house was swelteringly hot, even though it was March and nobody had been home. After setting down our bags and shedding our coats and blazers in the entryway, we took stock of the dining room. I gawped a bit at a large pair of purple breasts staring back at me from a painting hanging above the long table. The far wall of the room was made up entirely of windows, opening on one side to a raised deck and looking out over an in-ground pool on the other. The view was slightly marred, however, by concentrations of dark specs scattered over the bottom quarter of each tall pane of glass, like a bacterial culture growing on a clear petri dish. Jen and I glanced at each other and moved closer to the window. We stopped short when we got near enough to see that Elle had not been exaggerating about their little problem: each dark spec was, in fact, a ladybug. “Shit,” Jen muttered and turned on her heel back toward the kitchen. I quickly followed. “Do you know where they keep their vacuum?” I asked as she strode into what appeared to be a laundry room, dreading the prospect of sending a bunch of innocent ladybugs to a dusty grave. “No,” her reply was somewhat muffled as she rifled through miscellaneous household items. “…but this will do,” she emerged, grimly holding up a small blue handheld dustbuster. That's how we found ourselves, dressed in business casual, crawling on our hands and knees on the heavy off-white carpet. Jen led our bleak two-woman parade, sucking up all the ladybugs she could with the dustbuster. I brought up the rear with a roll of paper towel, scooping up those mercifully left behind. Kneeling in my blue pencil skirt, sweat accumulating under my stiff button-down shirt, I wondered how in the hell I had gotten there. Every four feet or so, we would get up and run out onto the deck. Jen opened up the dust buster, I shook out my paper towel, and we set the ladybugs free. We finished up the operation in plenty of time, a bit disheveled but surely less so than the ladybugs. The catering staff arrived shortly thereafter and began unloading large foil trays of food in the kitchen. The warm, spicy smell of potato samosas filled the room, made all the more tantalizing by the knowledge that we were not invited to stay for dinner and thus would not be partaking in the food. My mouth watered as I pushed down a wave of hunger. Glowing headlights appeared through the front windows, signaling the arrival of David, Elle, and Yo-Yo Ma himself. Jen and I quickly smoothed our rumpled blouses and skirts; I tried to pat down my flyaway hairs and performed a quick armpit smell check. David and Elle whirled in, all disingenuous warmth, showering us in greetings and feigned gratitude as we took their coats and hung them in their own closet. Mr. Ma followed close behind. He smiled genially as we made our introductions, waving away my handshake and offering a kind hug. The group ventured off for a tour of the house, and Jen and I were free to go. I snuck a few potato samosas from the kitchen and bid Jen goodnight. As I drove home, I remembered that aptitude test from seventh grade. I may not have been fated to become a butcher, I thought to myself, but I had dipped my toe into another unexpected profession: exterminator. Maybe the writers of the test knew what I was starting to learn – that you can't genuinely plan for much of anything, and throughout your life, your career path will twist and turn towards and away from what you actually studied. Or maybe they just got a kick out of messing with pre-teens.

As the world outside collapses into chaos, thousands take cover in the safety of their homes. Daily responsibilities and social gatherings fade into a distant memory. I retreat into my hiding spot: a small cozy room on the top floor of my childhood home, isolated from others and oh-so-familiar. I sink into my bed with the knowing that it will be a long time before I leave again. Within the week I have found an escape from the global stand-still. Though all remains quiet outside, my mind is loud with fresh ideas and new thoughts, filling my head with make believe worlds in which adventure is still a possibility and home is just a place to go when it's over. As I write, my mind is messy with concepts, one thought stumbling into another as each word spills out of my head and onto the screen. Though it makes little sense, my writing space is just as cluttered as my mind. Multitudes of blankets and pillows, all different shapes and sizes, lay scattered across my small bed. It's a melting pot of textures: soft, warm blankets blending in with scratchy throw pillows and thin sheets, the sharp prick of my pencil tip every time I lay back, the cool metal of my water bottle against my skin. Torn pages from an old notebook are crumpled into each corner of my workspace, discarded notes and outlines long forgotten scribbled onto any nearby paper. A stack of books lean against the wall, taller than I am standing. Each story looms over me as I write, both intimidating and inspiring me. My most treasured item nests in my lap. The bright white and blue-ish screen of my beloved laptop gazes up at me, illuminating my face in light. Tattered stickers and old post-it notes cling to its sides. The letters on the keyboard, as familiar as the back of my hand, await my next move, as excited as I am to finish the story. Just to my left, the door to my room buzzes with excitement. The faint sound of my brother and sister playing outside pulls me away from my work for just a moment, teasing me with the thought of fun and games. Peace and quiet isn't much of an option anymore, no matter how much you wish to not be disturbed. My phone, pushed to the furthest corner of my room for the least amount of distractions, lights up with new notifications. Against my better nature, a part of me aches to get up, to walk across the room and grab that little box of instant gratification. Another wants to skip out of the room and enjoy a fulfilling game of tag. An even smaller part of me glances out the window, at the empty streets that once danced with life. A twinge of nostalgia squeezes my heart, reminding me of what used to be. Of days out on the town, of early morning rushes out of the house, of late night parties I once loved. But the more sensible part of me knows that this is for the better. For now, the confines of this room are enough, and wherever it is I want to go, my imagination will take me. I look back at my laptop. It still waits patiently to hear the end of my story; It would be cruel to leave it unsatisfied. Muscle memory pulls my fingers to the keyboard, and before I know it, I'm back in the excitement of the world I created.

I made mistakes and bad choices. I made poor decisions in life. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and reverse my actions. I have been stubborn, selfish, hard-headed, indecisive. I took so many risks without considering the risks at all. I love too much and fall so hard. I do my best at work and get so little in return. I trust so much and get hurt too often. I enjoy the company of others and the comfort of solitude. I make my friends smile and laugh yet I can't even make myself happy. I can give hard-core advice but I can't even solve my own dilemmas. I am a living irony. My world is my stage. And it seems like everyone's enjoying the show. Except me. Maybe in my next lifetime, I'll be the woman that I dreamed to be. Maybe I'll find closure to all the hanging questions in my head. Maybe. For now, I'll just live in irony.

I was not actually thinking of it until I felt like I was asked to write about it, so here it comes. At quarantine I wasn't living that much but I was feeling so much, emotions which I learned to name during therapy, that I do for a long time now, but I forgot because for a really significant amount of time I haven't been dealing with myself alone, but I have a thing I learned about me. I like to feel the Sun. So this day I got up at my regular time, 8:30 a.m., and while I was doing some hibiscus tea, I turned my face and saw this sunlight shinning on the plants in my backyard. Then I put the tea in a cup and went to see the sun, I stood there for about 10 minutes with my eyes closed, just meditating. Hence, I decided to repeat this in the following mornings. For the whole week I woke up around 8:30 am, made my tea and went see this slit of light that illuminated the plants I myself planted a couple years ago willing to control my anxiety, it worked, allied with those things you know. It's funny how this light always shone over there, but I never really paid attention to it. It felt like a refuge, it felt a lot alike to be free. Whatsoever, this other day started raining and instead of being in the backyard doing my brand new routine, I started to scroll my social media feed and saw this post about eternalize your experience and memories by writing about it, so started digging into my memories everything that happened at home during quarantine and felt like an obligation to expose this experience, nothing was wrong. On the other hand, everything couldn't be more in the right place with my parents and sister, beside this week that was a month ago, which I lost two dears friends, not because of Covid, but because of it, we could not say a proper good bye, in fact, thousands of people out there couldn't offer their condolences to their loved ones. On this week I felt a darkness inside me, I felt sad for my friends, guilty and angry at those who were not respecting the social isolation, how come people could be this selfish knowing that every day thousands and thousands of people die in such drastic ways, the doctors and nurses were working twice as hard and people were struggling to survive. Nevertheless, I was lucky to be able to stay at home and connect with my family in innumerous possibilities, some good days, some bad days, in general, more good days than bad ones. So today, for the tenth time my sister did those chocolates with strawberries tartlets that she learned on the internet, those little pies where we find at bakeries and are incredible easy to make. Bakery, you just lost a client. Today, for the thirtieth time my father made his mind that he had to fix something that was not even broke. Today, for the fiftieth time my mother decided to clean up all the closets and cabinets of the house, it was a pile of useless papers to throw away, books from my school time, some History didactic books, that made me wonder about what history books will be like 10 years from now, another pile of clothes to donate, pieces which we didn't even remember, that we kept just in case this specific trend would be back and clearly didn't fit us anymore. Also today, for the thousandth time we laughed at my sister that if she doesn't do a standup comedy after quarantine, I'll do it for her, she's the most hilarious person I know, she makes fun of everything, the strange way I sleep, the weird habits my mother has, about how everything makes me cry, the weird habits our father has as well and every day she captures something different in all of us. Back to my daily routine, after this summer rainy day, very common here at this two degree below equator line city, I got back to my mourning ritual. Tea, Sun, meditation. After that I sat in front of my computer in my white desk seeing my bedroom's off white wall with some photos and random drawings on it, started working and an idea to write came to me and it reminded me this feeling of gratitude, but how can I put this feeling in a not boring and cliché words? I'm healthy, my parents are healthy, I'm at home, We are closer than ever. I'm lucky. What is all that noise? I can't believe it. My mother decided to change the paintings from wall and the furniture to different spots. Yeah, I think this kind stuff will be very common from now on, at least until the quarantine is over.

Every single day, I write a gratitude journal. I have been writing one since I was ten years old. In the beginning of the pandemic, I was hopeful. But as people close to me tested positive and one of my best friend's dads succumbed to the deadly virus, the virus was not a cold statistic anymore. My little niece, usually cheerful, wrote a story about how she discovered a magic potion that could combat the virus. For the first time, I knew that I was going to be living through a period in the world that would constitute living history. Indeed, anything we write about this pandemic and our experiences of it, will be used as archival research for years to come. How have I being spending my days, you ask? I have been practising strict social distancing, as several people I am quarantining with are immuno-compromised. In my real life, I live and work as an entrepreneur and a tour guide, so tactile presence is important not just to me as a human being, but also in terms of my career. Of course, my walking tours have dried up, but I have spent my time listening to BTS, a Kpop band that I discovered when I was going through one of the worst phases of my life-getting out of a physical and emotionally abusive relationship. The trauma of that relationship continues to haunt me and sometimes I wake up at night in a pool of tears, frightened and startled too, at the person I became in a relationship with a person determined to impede my growth through their abject apathy and narcissism. It has been three years, and I have emerged out of this terrible equation stronger, wiser and post importantly, much happier. During the pandemic when I have some free time, I watch mukbangs and learn about ASMR, play video games with new friends I have made, the pandemic has really helped me expand my community and appreciate all the creative ways in which food bloggers, sustainable fashion designers are using their platforms. I am also very impressed by the way activists are using the tools available to them to agitate and organize. Writers are writing beautifully. I have been feeling very exhausted of late so I have been snapping at a lot of people who are very close to me. I have built an unflappable social media persona online, but I am still the same quiet, unsure and grouchy person I always was. It is so easy to lose sight of who you fundamentally are when accolades come your way. And contrary to popular belief, success does not always make you confident. It can also make you nervous and insecure. With almost no interactions offline, I find myself comparing my own life to acquaintance's lives. He got an award during quarantine. Her business is thriving. She got a book deal. Once you start looking at other people's curated feeds (and automatically compare your unfiltered life to their curated one), it makes you miserable. Rationally, you know that this is only one part of the story and there is so much more to it, but your insecurity and low self esteem gets the better of you. "I still have not finished the book I promised I'd write," I tell myself. But I have low energy and am mentally too exhausted to actually form characters. "I will be disciplined and create a schedule that works for me." But I fail and I fail every single time. Finally, I decide that it is time for a shift in mindset. I am lucky to be alive and healthy and it is really okay if I don't get much done during the pandemic. I am working on my full-time job, and being productive is not really the prerogative at the moment. Finding a vaccine for COVID-19 is. Surviving is. Staying kind and loving is.

Wake up. Eat. Work. Come home. Eat again. Sleep. Repeat. We're no different than conditioned zombies, trained to do whatever it is that keeps us sustained in life. Corporations trained us like dogs to do their bidding, and by the time we've accomplished our training for the day we are exhausted. Our minds are shut off and all we can think about is resetting. So, what happens when over a billion people across the nation are forced to stay home? Forced to come to terms with who they are and everything they can't be. To quarantine for the safety of themselves and their neighbors, but are we truly safe from ourselves? The demons that never cut us loose, or the suffocation that loneliness brings. We've all felt it. We are all struggling to deal with the isolation that quarantine prompts, as a pandemic is raging in the background, and all we can do is fight the war within ourselves. Some may bury in hobbies, while others ignore quarantine rules all together, and others focus on their social media platform. Either way, all we are doing is delaying the inevitable. Delaying what looking into ourselves may bring and finding out who we really are. Nobody wants to be alone, yet that is all we can be. It's not simple. This has been anything but a simple year. What everyone thought would be the best year of their life is just simply not. It's an entangled mess, full of controversy and hate. The thin line has been shattered between reality and what is not. People feel at a loss within themselves and there's no distraction to keep their mind from drifting into the dark. When you're alone, there's nothing and no one to stop you from committing the sinful acts you've pushed away. And there's nobody there to help you out of the murky waters your life has created. Nothing is ever simple. Quarantine is not simple. It's similar to sitting on the couch, watching t.v. while the world is on fire and it's on the brink of death. But what can you do? A conditioned corporate worker, forced to watch the cruelty that life can bring, pushing it out of your mind with labor and the same routine everyday. But, you're not anymore. Life isn't the same anymore. My life isn't the same. It's changed. The world has changed. In as little as six months my perception of how life should be has shattered. I'm forced to be alone, to feel. But, I don't want to. So, I continue and wait for fate to find me. All the while, I'm choking back on hopelessness. I've been isolated since the pandemic began. Alone and distraught. I've been forced to face my own demons and lurking shadows. Forced to see myself through a different lens, because I have nothing to distract me. The words “struggle,” and “lost” can help identify what I've been going through. It's been quiet and not even the sounds of the outside world are enough to comfort me. I crave human interaction and to feel again. Alone with my thoughts has never been ideal. I prefer the conditioned labor and routine to occupy my day. Instead, I've been doing nothing. I had started to feel numb, like my existence was insignificant in this world. But that's not true. We all play an important role in the universe, whether it's fate or our own path. We create something. History. I've realized that living in quarantine does not mark the end of your goals, or your accomplishments. Quarantine can potentially be a way to find yourself. Like how I've started to find myself through words. Words led me to self-discovery. My life used to feel meaningless and ineffective, until I found writing. It was a way to freely express myself without the judgement of the world. My words can convey hope, as well as destruction. They can convey love and hatred. However, it is all about your perception. If you allow the cruel path life has set out for you to sink you under water where you slowly suffocate and drown under disappointment then you'll never be free. You'll never be free of the conditioned life you've been taught to have since a child. What you've been trained to perceive, you can change it. Change the way you've been born to see the world and understand that your words have power to alter things. I have felt everything you have felt. Because in the end, we are not alone. We experience things together. While I may look out of my window and see a different landscape than you, we still have linked thoughts and emotions. It may not happen simultaneously, but they are shared. We empathize, sympathize, and care. That is the heart of humanity. Quarantine can be scary and lonesome, but it can also be self-serving in the fact that you can be uplifted and live your own life, if even for awhile. You don't have to succumb to the rules of everyday expectations. Instead, you get to be yourself through discovery and self-love. Learn how to empower your life and live it the way you want.