001 is an artist and a human. She strives to understand both the world and her world, as well as how these two aspects of the objective reality fit together. She writes about isolation and introspection, about the long journey of self-discovery and the rocky peaks of the human psyche. Her real, human name matters very little in the realm of words and images. She is 001 because, while she feels alone, she continues to hope she will not remain this way forever. With her art, she is trying to carve a place for herself into the bark of reality.
To Wish Upon A Star
The room is a featureless and dark abyss. In truth, it doesn’t matter. Only the large, sloppily-sculpted throne that is the centerpiece of this space truly matters. It towers above my human self. It changes sometimes, though it is not supposed to. Despite its greatness my eyes glaze over it more often than not, my touch never falls upon its tough, solid exterior. At times it is old, dusty wood, ugly in the haphazard planes and curves of its construction, other times it’s dull stone, sometimes precious in some timid glint from beneath the thick layer of fog imposed upon this space by my unfocused vision.
On this throne sits the morning star, his beauty ethereal and his heart drenched in misery. For him this throne is a prison. My presence confines him to this place, keeps his light dull and his psyche hungry. When I wander into his throne room he suffers, the chains around him tighter than they would ever need to be. But then I leave, promising to return soon, and he suffers more because he knows I am lying.
Although I am thankful, I am never pleased. It is hard to please one who would consume and destroy all which comes before her. The pride of the morning star grows dull as, with every return to the throne room, the fog remains as heavy and cold as ever. I want more. I want it all. There will always be conditions to my parole, but I will always reign above them. No pride, no dream, no path can touch the edges of my being, without being torn apart and made into the heavy dust I breathe into the world.
I want to be alone, I tell the star. I feel the pain oozing from his pores but I can’t stop. I must continue. I must be heard. I want to be all alone. It is because I love, you see, not because I hate. I love and love until I suffocate, then I consume until there is no more to keep me attached. I cannot allow myself to be tied down. I will starve if I remain and my hunger will no longer be mine to control. He has no voice, as I wish it so. He is a blank slate, his skin like a carapace, hiding his true self from eyes which never wished to see. I say, perhaps you think I am being cruel – but you have never felt the hunger like I do. You are as hollow as I am, but your emptiness has a beginning and an end. For me, my emptiness is the beginning and the end. I ask but I do not believe, for even if I did, the barriers of my flesh and blood would never allow me to satiate my hunger. I love this world for what it is and hate it for what I’m not. I’ll only love you if you’ll stay this way, a prisoner like me. Will you ever be free from your throne, from your greatness? No. It was you who chose to sit there, to be the terrible and the mighty. It is you who wishes to be the giver, and for I to be the receiver. Then, give it to me! Give me what I want. What do I want? More.
I’m disappointed. Faust’s fantasy was much more charming. Everyone’s tales seem to be so straightforward. But not mine. Why not mine? Why can’t I see?
“I want to eat your head.”
His voice is no more than a whisper. So I laugh. I too want many things. Now, to see, if either one of us is granted satiety.
From the Editor:
We hope that readers receive In Parentheses as a medium through which the evolution of human thought can be appreciated, nurtured and precipitated. It will present a dynamo of artistic expression, journalism, informal analysis of our daily world, entertainment of ideas considered lofty and criticism of today’s popular culture. The featured content does not follow any specific ideology except for that of intellectual expansion of the masses.
Founded in late 2011, In Parentheses prides itself upon analysis of the current condition of intelligence in the minds of these young people, and building a hypothesis for one looming question: what comes after Post-Modernism?
The idea for this magazine stems from a simple conversation regarding the aforementioned question, which drew out the need to identify our generation’s place in literary history.
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