Self-Acceptance Through Art
By: Joely
The hand is the wind: it moves coordinately, swiftly, yet chaotically. Lines, shapes, colors emerge, not from conscious thought, but from something deeper — an instinct, a force. The pen is the chime: it sings gently, melodically, yet commandingly. Sounds, rhythms, and harmony are composed with the imagination of the creator. Limitless. Still, limitless imagination is shackled by talent, by adversities, by knowledge — each being double-edged swords. Talent awards the hand with freedom, a privilege, yet dictates perfection. Adversities ignite passion, an opportunity, yet threaten to extinguish it.
And knowledge.
Knowledge, where one stands in a sprawling field, vast and boundless, illuminates a door in the midst of infinity. If one dares to explore, another universe unravels. There is no final destination — only an endless pursuit. A creator, no — a maker — travels not to arrive, but to chase. To create is to be God. To make is to be human. Inevitably, to be human is to be constrained.
There is sound: the gentle pierce when the pen dances across the surface, the swift whisper of the pen soaring through the canvas, the hum of the tablet beneath my palm. My grip tightens — until the hand is no longer my own. Until the hand is the pen. Until the roles of the maker and the tool converge, like the musician and the instrument, where motion and intent become seamless and inevitable.
Spring blooms and raptures, bursting a fury of rage with flowers and tides, clashing together, creating forms that defy logic — forms born in the moment. Such child’s play, yet so profoundly mature.
The hand, the moment the pen is held, embarks an arduous journey of exploration, one where the eyes do not see, one where the head does not think, but one where only the heart can feel. Emotions, the bane of human existence, paves way for art. Beautiful, anyone would say. Yet, ugly.
My hand, yes, the vessel for exploration to the cosmic, celestial realms still draws lines only to be erased. It is automatic: construction and annihilation, revision and recreation, criticism and inspiration. There is more. More to do. More to chase, but never to grasp. More to do to fill the empty glass of my elusive satisfaction — an empty glass with a chip on its bottom.
My heart blackens, witnessing the failures of an artist, of myself. It is never enough. Each stroke crafted is a stroke further from understanding, further from completion. Confidence in ruins, my hand falters in this pursuit, spiraling into an unfathomable abyss of what I cannot do. Desperation and exhaustion draw near. There I am standing in an arena, not in a field. There I am exploring the labyrinth, not interstellar universes. There I am facing reality, not imagination. And, there I am confined in the pervasive paradox of creator and destroyer.
Again, to be human is to be constrained. How unsatisfying.
Then, what is it? What is the purpose of such “talent” if my very own hands hesitate, trembling in fear? How can I trust the very strokes that carve themselves onto canvases, that bleed themselves unto scars — all engraved in permanence, yet are erased. Are lost.
More, I am still struck with fright that creation might just be a constant struggle between what I desire and what is beyond me, beyond human. That no matter how many doors I open, I would only see fields.
Further still. The hand, despite the weight of hesitation, dares to yearn for knowledge, risks itself for freedom. Passion, zeal, love, all bloom in its awakening. A blank canvas, the fear of every artist, becomes tainted. Remember, the hand and pen are one. They launch together, like an airplane ready for takeoff, ready for action. The mind slumbers. Only instinct remains. Now is the moment.
You are a dancer performing on a stage. Every movement, tiptoe, twitch, are bold, elegant strokes of paint — silent masterpieces where movements expose more truths than words could ever convey. You think you leap once, yet the pen draws twice: lines, shapes, colors materialize before you see it. But you can feel it. The desperation of each stroke, like the heavy breathes of an exhausted dancer: gasping. Gasping to reach satisfaction.
It's close.
Now, the hand has a mind of its own, no longer constrained by perfection, found freedom in the void of creation and destruction. To create is to destroy. That is true. However, to create is not to perfect, but to experience. New fields are opened, but each being meadows, dunes, orchards — each being new, episodes, series, movies. An endless pursuit, an unobtainable destination, a wicked adventure. But it is the journey that holds value, a journey that has no specific end — for to be a wanderer is to be free, not lost, but to live in the moment — the moment of creation.
The Words
By Jiyoo
One chooses a word as a composer chooses a note. It is carefully placed between others, in chords, melodic and harmonious. No room for excess. Only the essential remains; unnecessary would dilute the song. The words are intricately arranged to form rhythm and contrast and tension. Soft quarter after accented quarter; minor chords after major chords; piano after forte. Words resonate with each other, escalating into a crescendo. Silent beginning. Symphony amplifies, tension intensifies, then boom! The climax hits, the audience amused. I admire how the words, carefully crafted, penetrate the hearts of the listeners. Yet, it is tragic that it is I who crafts these words.
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Frustration strikes as I write my paragraph. My pen stalls. My fingers ceased hustling. Different words resonate in the void of my mind, yet a subtle discord rumbles. The word “amused” seems muffled. No, “tragic” does not fully represent how I feel. “Carefully” or “intricately”—what’s the difference anyway? No, no. The word “hits” disrupts the flow, the tension. And I face this frustration whenever I work with words. There is an unresolved, irritant dissonance among the words, like patches of different-colored clothes stitched together, a disaster somehow sound yet unnatural, for no unity is present. Lack of words impede—inhibit? hinder? or hamper?—me from solidifying the clouds of thoughts. The limited words shackle my thoughts and obstruct my throat. They gouge my creation, causing a sudden puncture that snaps the tension I have been building.
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“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world,” the renowned philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein once stated. This truth saddens my heart; I mourn for my life bound by wordlessness. Once, I was unaware that the words dampened my voice, that the absence of words narrowed my vision, that the boundaries of words limited my thoughts. I used to live in joyous ignorance, unconcerned of the tiny sphere that enclosed me. The reality is, that I live in this ghetto of my mind, wishing to express yet inarticulate, craving to control yet powerless, praying to escape yet incapable. In the limited world I live in, every day is a survival. Without words, I am voiceless, for words are the means you speak, means you stand up for yourself. Without words, I am brittle, vulnerable to those who manipulate the words, those who strip my voice. In this world, the wordless are dominated by those who control the words. “You will not certainly die”; the serpent’s words were pretentiously sweet (Gen. 3.4). Till now, the serpent's words deceive, manipulate, control others. Through advertisements and media and debates, they feed on the fears, possibilities, ambitions of the people. Stock advisors advertise that they have the key to the shortest way to success, yet, in fact, only a few benefits from it. Casinos may seem delightful, yet, in reality, it is overindulgence disguised under the pretext of freedom. Politicians speak of fears—fears that the immigrants would overtake their country—when not much has happened. Under these pretentious words, the wordless are confined, redlined, lynched. With their quiet voices, the wordless are pitiful destitute, deemed inferiors, mere scapegoats. There is this breach between the eloquent and the wordless, thus the breach between the world and me.
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Words are not the only component of survival, though; through numbers, I have survived amidst this unjust world. The numbers do not deceive, do not pretend; rather, they are honest shades of black. For instance, the natural number “7” is just 7, and its value remains the same. Calculations lead to one truth, and any others are mere mistakes. I find beauty in the numbers, the simplicity of their absoluteness. The numbers cannot change nor harm others.
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But the numbers are not enough. The world cannot be defined by the dull black shades of numbers. The world—full of natural beauty and intricate senses and human interactions—is too complex to be represented with mere truths and falsehoods. There are so many possibilities, so many perspectives between black and white. Thus, the words were created by the world to illustrate the vivid, nuanced world.
Or did people create the world? Or did words, which reflect the world’s beauty, exist before creation? The Word created the world in the beginning, John declares. “Let there be light,” then there was light. The words are the means people create thoughts, sentences, and conversations. What is it, then, that makes the words complex, both beautiful and menacing—beautiful as they reflect the complex nature of the world, but menacing as they distort the truth and control the powerless?
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Words are the means people express themselves, not that words vocalize themselves through people. Hence, it is up to the people who control the words to either edify or manipulate. It is like the Age of Exploration; like Columbus discovered the New World, we uncover the words and widen our world. Through words, we have the power to heal and encourage and persuade; simultaneously, we are given the power to hurt, manipulate, slaughter. Some would choose to commit the same atrocities as the latter. These serpents would distort the truth to portray themselves as heroic and righteous. They would suppress the dissidents to silence their voices.
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We must not consume their lies when they appeal to our fears, when they equate overindulgence to freedom, when they offer “success”. We must not succumb when their booming voice muffles ours, but rather expand our voice—words. Thus, we are called to control the words, battle against the distorted world, and advocate the truth. Thus, I continue to wrestle with the words.
The Zoo
By Chiara
To you, the train is like a zoo; the animals are domesticated, but barely so. You know that at the sight of prey, “savage” will rush back into their eyes, “wild” will replace their docile blood, and “tame” will slip off their necks as a too-loose collar slips off a dog. Because what is in their nature can only be suppressed — never erased.
And yet, you get on the train.
As you do, starved mouths water at the sight of your jeans, tongues wetting teeth to prepare for feast. The doors close; you are now their captive, imprisoned in their enclosure.
Just three stops. Survive for three stops.
The train lurches forward, and the jungle stirs. You teeter, losing your balance, and suddenly, you are trapped — two pungent, sweaty bodies are pressed against yours like the entrapping walls of a cage, its cool rails sending an electrifying chill through your body. Panicked, your eyes dart around to look for an escape, just as a blood-thirsty mosquito shoots through the air to look for its next victim. Suddenly, your vision sharpens.
An empty seat.
The bodies embrace you tighter, thrusting into your every crevice. The smells of hunger and lust emanating from their pores begin to suffocate your lungs. Invisible teeth dig into regions ceaselessly tender. People stare all around you: predators waiting to unsheathe their claws, prey wanting to camouflage into the foliage. Someone, anyone, please.
Help.
But this zoo has no keepers; there is only complicit silence. And the silence begins to pour from your own throat. Where are your cries? Have you surrendered your voice, aware that there is no rescue? Or have you been silenced by the claws groping your mouth?
Escape.
You unclench the jaws of the lions and jerk your body free from their teeth. As you slither toward the empty seat, the beeping tone of the train ruffles the jungle’s feathers.
Please mind the platform gap.
Animals stir. The two lions that had compressed you between their abdomens, that had run their intangible fangs along your bones, they disembark; but peril still hangs in the air. You remain tense, for you know that here, there is no safety: there is only “safer.”
So you sit, coiling your slender body tightly, angling your head down, making yourself small. Two more stops.
But you feel him before you see him.
The hairs rise on the back of your neck.
He pounces into the chair on your right.
He sprawls his meaty legs wider and wider until his knee jabs into yours. His carnivorous presence smears against your skin. Every nerve judders.
Too close.
Your body crumbles inward, every muscle rapidly collapsing to your center. You shiver, attempting to shed the feeling of his hide brushing against you. But his legs prowl closer, sending roars of alarm into your ears: “Where are you going?”
“Come here, love. I don’t bite.”
His claws twitch. You flinch. He grins. Canines out. He is itching to feel you.
He cranes his neck closer, his breath stale with beer and nauseating desperation. Your heart gasps for air, pounding unwaveringly to free itself from your skeleton. You sense his arm creep up and latch onto the back of your seat, his knuckles brushing the nape of your neck. His grip tightens, possessive: “You are mine.”
Too close.
The train jolts to an abrupt halt, the zoo shaken as the doors prepare to open. To you: chaos. To him: a welcome diversion.
Hip.
Knee.
Collarbone.
Claw.
They all thrust into you. You try to stand. Your knee buckles. A limp body falls back into the seat.
Someone.
Anyone
Please.
Help.
A woman boards the train. Your gazes lock. Her eyes apologize. There is nothing she can do.
“You are mine.”
His eyes undress you meticulously, burning a trail of humiliation into your skin as he slides the straps of your top down your shoulders and forearms. He explores you: unrelenting, his fang-like gaze depressing into your every surface. Teeth glide across bone, carving out new scars like dark flowers that blossom in the garden of your complexion; he sows his scarring seeds next to countless others: tender bite marks red as roses, swollen bruises blue as violets. It is enough flora to be considered a greenhouse.
What is there to do but succumb; dumb your mind to lessen the trauma; numb your heart to shut out the pain. He has stripped you of your respect — but also of your feeling, and for that you are grateful. You are bare. You are his. You are prey.
Now approaching Hillview Station.
Deprecation stains your soul; if only you could shed your body. You stand up, spiritless, heart sore from a predator’s lacerations.
As the zoo’s gates open, you glance over your shoulder to him, and his gaze encircles your being a final time. A smirk wades on his face, bidding you goodbye, letting you know: you have satisfied his craving.
You step onto the platform, but it is no longer familiar.
Where am I?
Moss mushes under your soles. Vines encroach the walls. You look up to a ceiling of dense, lush leaves. The scents of sap and soil flood your nostrils.
Wilderness.
To you, the train is like a zoo. But predators are not confined to the train; the world is their jungle. And you: you are their prey.
The Final Race
By Joshua
As the hours leading to the race stretch onward, the air thickens with an unspoken hum, a subtle charge that rises in the veins. The clock is ticking and draws nearer, and with it, a familiar wave of nervousness swells in. Time, now a tangible thing, swells into an oppressive presence. Each passing second reminds me of the hours, the practices, and the choices that have led me here—each one crucial, each one folding into the next like an intricate, delicate stitch in the fabric of this moment. One does not simply run; one runs as one dances—, practicing and refining each step until it is muscle memory. Each step is as crucial as the next to the end. Tension grates against the body, not just in the muscles, but deeper still, in the mind, in the heart, in the very bones. I can feel the surge of thoughts come—sharp, intrusive.
“You can’t do this.”
“What were you thinking?”
“Why are you doing this?”
The air vibrates with expectation, as though the universe itself is holding its breath, waiting. The only thing in focus is the race. Just the race.
Then those 3 words everyone despised.
“On your marks.”
Words that settle like ice on my chest, cold and unyielding. Panic settles into my mind, adrenaline coursing through my veins: like a bow fully drawn, wanting to be released as anticipation fills the mind.
“Get set.”
Silence. A void of sound that presses in from all sides, leaving only the faintest rustle of wind, whispering in the trees, barely audible but somehow deafening. Seconds start to feel like hours, as each second passes, the expectation of gunfire. Mutters of prayers fill the air, whispers in the wind. A quiet resolve settles into my bones.
BANG!
The silence breaks by the heavy sound of a gunshot. The world falls apart, as time shatters and I start to drift away from reality. Everything I have learned suddenly leaves my mind; I have only one thought: get to that finish line. Relying only on the muscles to get everything right. Throwing yourself onto the track, yet somehow staying balanced, accelerating after each step. Carried by the rhythm drilled down into my bones, those days of endless repetition being woven into my skin and bones. Each step is a note of a song that has been sung thousands of times before. A song that the legs, the arms, the lungs, and the heart have all memorized. Each swing of the arm starts to burn, each stomp creating a rhythm of its own. Counting down the distance left.
“Only one lap.”
Grasping the baton with a deathly grip, remembering not to drop it, reminding myself of the hardship I went through to get to this moment.
“Less than a minute.”
That minute feels like hours. The first stretch, loud thumping along the track, accelerating with each step. Each person beside you is thinking the same thing.
“Will I make it out of this alive?”
Reaching the start of the second stretch, one feels like they are soaring through the air. A majestic feeling that one can do anything, these 14 seconds feel like hours, even days. Cheering coming in the whispers of the wind, faint enough to go unnoticed. When the stretch ends, reality hits you: your lungs are on fire, gasping for air, begging it to be over. These 14 seconds start to feel like years of torture. Arms swing faster, legs create a stronger, louder rhythm. Your mind tells you to give up but you push harder than ever before. Yet one can not simply give up when the end is so near. Each person is close to the next, no one is giving up, and no one can stand losing.
Suddenly, it is the final stretch.
“Just 100 meters to go.”
These 100 meters feel like a marathon. Your legs quiver as a chill fills your bones, and each step hurts more than the previous. Your arms suddenly become useless. Everything that was drilled into your bones has now gone in vain. There is no style or rhythm left, just the urge to get it over with. Yet with each step, the finish line retreats. You feel your lungs collapsing on themselves, your legs start to feel like jelly, and then you start to question everything.
“Can I even finish this?”
Soon, the noise increases, changing from silence to cheers in seconds. With each step, the cheering gets louder.
“Almost there.” is what you tell yourself. Reaching the 20-meter mark, your vision starts to blur, the noise suddenly disappears, and you can not feel anything anymore. Losing each of my senses as I get closer I stumble in desperation. Then remember, pass the baton, do not drop it no matter what happens. Eyes try to focus on the person as you plunge forward hoping they receive the baton and can finish the race.
“Did I finish it?”
“Is it finally over?”
As you cross the finish line, all you can dream of is lying down on the ground. Every athlete in the race lies down simultaneously, gasping for air to fill their lungs, begging for the pain to disappear. Yet there is the wave of accomplishment, as you finally finish the race, achieving the time you hoped for. As the last of your team crosses the finish line, a wave of cheers erupts from the stands. Your entire team ran towards each person who ran with you. Screaming at the top of your lungs with the breath you have left, grabbing and hugging all of those who you ran with. Your legs are dying but you do not care as you have finally completed the race. Then you start to question,
“Was it a new record?”
“Did we win?”
You ask yourself all of these questions, yet that does not matter. All you can dream of is lying back down on the ground and falling asleep. As you lay down, a grin hits your face, knowing that you achieved your goals even though you felt like you were dying.
What Should I Wear?
By Daneesha
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Selecting an outfit poses more complexities than it may seem. What shoes? What bag? What pieces go together? So many considerations with so many options. Despite outwardly seeming so simple, a well-built outfit, however, can set the tone for an entire day. Shifting one’s confidence, interactions, and even outlook. So, how simple is it really? Take students in high school, for example, who put so much emphasis on what they wear. The chaos that ensues when selecting an outfit for the first day of school is often overlooked by those who don’t experience it. But beyond fashion, there exists another, much more daunting selection process that students must navigate—choosing their courses.
But there are more parts to an outfit. What about which earrings best complement a dress or what belt ties together a pair of jeans? Students rummage through a vast wardrobe of clubs and extracurriculars, mixing and matching in hopes of creating a perfect harmony. Except this isn't just about looking good for a single day. This choice is supposed to lay the foundation for an entire future. Your future. The right mix could blow open doors to a world of prestigious universities and set you on the path to dream careers. But choose wrong and fear closing them forever. Unlike a simple outfit change though, this choice is far more rigid—like supergluing a pair of shoes to your feet and being forced to walk in them no matter how uncomfortable they turn out to be.
What’s worse is this pressure begins early. At an age when most are still figuring out their interests. Students are expected to select courses that will define the rest of their academic journey. Should they take the advanced math course that might set them up for success in engineering but could also tank their GPA? What about that AP History course that will impress admissions officers, or will it be an unnecessary struggle? Is it better to load up on sciences or to craft a balanced schedule? And what if they make the wrong choice? What if, at fourteen, you unknowingly close off entire career paths with a single decision?
It’s overwhelming to consider that at an age where people struggle to decide what to eat for lunch, they must also choose the subjects that will shape their academic and professional future. The fear of making the wrong choice looms over every student, amplifying as they move forward. It’s not just about picking courses; it’s about defining who they are and who they will become. One wrong move, and suddenly, that medical school dream feels unattainable. One misstep, and that international relations pathway seems distant.
And then there’s the added element of competition. Just as fashion can serve as a silent battleground of trends and self-expression, course selection is a subtle yet intense arena where students compare schedules to measure their academic worth. Did someone else take more APs? Are their classes more “impressive” on a college application? The fear of not doing enough pushes students toward classes they may not even enjoy, solely for the sake of prestige. The result? A schedule that looks perfect on paper but feels entirely suffocating in practice.
Teachers and counselors often advise students to “pick what they love” or “choose what challenges them,” but that advice rarely alleviates the fear. Passion doesn’t always align with practicality, and interest alone doesn’t guarantee success. The reality is, students are forced to balance what they enjoy with what they think will impress universities, all while dealing with the possibility of regret. No one wants to realise halfway through the year that they chose a course too difficult to handle or, worse, that they missed out on a subject that could have truly sparked their curiosity.
There’s also the unspoken rule that once a path is chosen, deviating from it is nearly impossible. A student who takes a full load of science and math courses in their first two years may feel trapped when they later realise they love history or political science. By then, their transcript is already shaped, and switching paths feels like an uphill battle. It’s as if the wardrobe has already been built—each item carefully chosen to match the others—but suddenly, the student wants to wear something completely different, and there’s no way to make it fit.
This fear of permanence, of making an irreversible mistake, weighs heavily on students. The truth is, no one really knows at fourteen what they want their life to look like. Even at eighteen, many are still uncertain. And yet, educational systems push them to make defining decisions before they have the maturity or experience to fully understand their implications.
It’s no wonder that course selection feels as terrifying as choosing the perfect first-day-of-school outfit—except this time, the stakes are much higher. The fear isn’t just about looking good for a single day; it’s about setting the trajectory for the years ahead. The hope, of course, is that students eventually find comfort in their choices, learning that while courses may shape their academic journey, they don’t have to define their entire future. But in the moment, the weight of each decision feels suffocating. And that’s the scariest part of all.
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