Photo by Hannah Ustun

Written by Ali Sutherland, Ailsa Anderson & Nelly Matorina


 I am free!

I have rid myself of all of this

horrible culture!

At an earlier breath in space and time, an idea was formed that in order to distance yourself from your own living, breathing, feeling morality all it takes is to think outside of the grains of language. What was born was everything that cannot be operationally defined in any meaningful, objective way (even though scientists try with all of their minds).     Concepts were shaped, abstractions, which try to convey our simultaneous sensory experiences in a single word : “LOVE” or “JOY”. But this word cannot be thought in tangible thoughts, so we’re back here again:


[luhv] noun, verb, loved, lov·ing.


1. a profoundly tender, passionate affection for   another person.

2.  a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.

3. sexual passion or desire.

4. a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.

5. (used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like): Would you like to see a movie, love?

 Retrieved from

 which is irrelevant and tells us more about how the word is used than its essence, its highs and lows of existence.

This is the story of how it grew from our senses, how we arrived at our  dichotomous world split apart by the sharp lines of language.  

 She shivers knowing these words create her own reality,   forever to be encased by the digital façade she so fervently detests.

The difference between thinking and feeling is that the former has concrete rules it follows (or seems to follow) – with one thought leading smoothly to the other.

Can you think of two things simultaneously? Three things?

Is your mind overloaded merely with the thoughts of it, the concept? Thinking has a sense of time, you can pinpoint when you thought about something, was it        yesterday, the day before, was it before you took a shower that day? Our memories aren’t perfect but thank goodness that the vague idea of time is tied to the vague idea of thought. But feelings, that’s a different story – they

…blend and bleed like the edges of colour in a tie dye shirt merging from red to purple to blue. The integration can happen slowly: when you sat nervously sweating in anticipation up until those moments when your name was called and all of a sudden every limb was filled with pride as you stood up in your row and squeezed past knees and hidden feet to make your way across the stage. But feelings like to keep you on your toes so they can also change at the flick of a switch; the tears of joy from meeting your family at the airport arrivals can quickly turn to tears of sadness as they tell you that he didn’t make it and passed while you were seventeen thousand feet above. They don’t fit into the linear grids, minutes, or ticks of time we like to map out in our minds. You cannot pinpoint the moment you felt disappointment or when that disappointment morphed into anger, defeat, then resilience.


I don’t know which came first, the idea of evil, the     notion of greatness or the concept of perfection, but in their entirety, in sheer absolute ignorance and  asceticism, irreality was created, allowing us, encouraging us to paint ourselves in colours intricately laced with stories and parables uttered by illusory mouths.

 She shivers knowing these words create her own reality, forever to be encased by the digital façade she so fervently detests.

 It is within these abstractions that we succumb to the ideal, the archetypal, that version of a self-identity, a lifestyle we so desperately long for. A lifestyle formed by ideas, concepts, notions, none tangible to the human touch or taste but exclusively to the streams of consciousness wandering her contemplations, expectations created from sheer replications of simulations of what was, once upon a time, coined as reality.

One day, one thought, identity is profitable

Within this craving for lifestyle, there is value, some vague value so arbitrarily condemned upon objects, upon our ideas and whether they are accepted by people longing for that which   completes them. An idea, a garment, in love or joy, for which they had longed for so excruciatingly that they only existed within the absence of it, and wholly within the comforting   precision of an idea equating to love, a garment to joy.

The fluidity of the inner transmuting with the seeming tangibility of the outer. Separately trying to materialise abstraction, to idealise reality.

The real only, really, exists in that which we can touch, smell, see, hear, taste, existing concretely as a sensory experience, in which there must exist some sort of factuality. 

The most easily manipulated senses of man, that which they experience in ‘reality’ is faulty, wavering, inconsistent, yet the abstractions remain, unfaltering and steadfast, alike the stories that bound the first civilisations, those that dictate our own, and those that we create, within our memories and the expectations of our memories, those which we choose to deny and fabricate the ‘reality’ of our past.

We must keep the pain, the threat of a pain she continually condemned herself to relive, not fully remembering words, or a semblance of facial expression, but a syncope of every cell of her identity so interwoven within that face, or her memory of it, her creation of it.

Pain so provocatively emulated, simulated in the form of culture, so relatable, ‘so real’ they uttered.

So fucking profitable, is this parable,

Happiness, Love, Joy, so profitable in culture, yet so painful to experience the evanescence of.




If people existed as they do in storybooks, they would all be either happy or sad.

She shivers knowing these words create her own reality, forever to be     encased by the digital façade she so fervently detests.

You can’t get t{here}. Happiness is a moment you look back upon and think, in that moment, you were happy. Is happiness ever captured in anything but hindsight? Can you realize in that moment, before it passes, that- yes; this is what happiness feels like. If you look to hard you won’t find it, but if you don’t consider it at all, you’ll never be able to appreciate it when it sneaks up into the <corners> of your smile.

If I smile 6 times a day, will I be happy? Okay, okay, how about 8? I think I could manage 8

The ever difficult task of describing the indescribable:

I’m tired of all the platitudes that try to capture my happiness. Your words don’t illuminate the feelings behind my beaming eyes and goofy grin.

Measure me a word, she’ll say

Count out some thoughts

Hold a couple of ideas in your fist, let them drag it down

Do those abstractions keep you full, do they jiggle as you move?