strand

Inside the walls of Dagenham Library in East London, I found myself surrounded by writers, readers, and creatives, all gathered in celebration of the written word and the magazine born from their shared passion.

Just a week after getting my driver’s license, I was in a car accident. What lodged itself most stubbornly in my mind wasn’t the impact – not the deployment of the airbags or the sound of breaking metal – but rather the clothes I was wearing.

Writer Louie Tunstall crafts a poem about how people romanticise experiences during their youth, and whether that excitement lasts.

Writer Alberta N'Guessan writes a poem about identity, colonialism and strength to celebrate Black History Month.

Autumn circulates into our systems like a prescription medicine we never remember taking, side effects including: vertigo, excessive nostalgia, and a dulled taste for sweetness.

Writer Noa Cobo Ribas creates a poem from magazine cut-outs.

Writer Zarah Hashim discusses lust, love and heartbreak in this prose piece accompanied by a poem.

In India, I watched my grandmother reuse glass jars, mend clothes until they were threadbare, and compost food scraps without ever calling it ‘sustainability.’ In the UAE, I saw consumption at its peak, with towering malls and fast fashion stores promising endless novelty. And in London, I’ve seen both the urgency of climate action and the energy of young people working collectively to make change.

While our pricey seminars become places of roaring anti-capitalist sentiments, we go back to our over-priced London houses/flats/student accommodations and spasmodically embrace our phones - a device harbouring capitalist vices. Micro-trends, endless advertisements, and dystopian feeds that broadcast genocide and celebrity or influencer opulence simultaneously. 

All these terms: baby, child, preteen, teenager, adult – what do they do for our souls? The reason 19 feels liminal, almost like it doesn't exist is because, just like 17, we are waiting for the next stage.