If atoms of burning cells painted in resolution

Would the molecules of your fiction exist the same?

Through the cellular planes of our twinned ambition

Will the atrium of emotionality become more than a game?

Spliced through the stars of nature and nurture

Pixels completed of our inner solar flame

Yet beyond the grasp of Valentina Tereshkova

Perfect harmony always seem lightyears away

Within your galaxy of hidden knowledge

Through milky ways of a hands’ shaped kind

The rather singularity of a complex universe

Drawing parallels of our hopeful atomic minds

The pungent bloom of an uncultivated variety

Nurtured through nature yet salient in strength

Growing freely within a sculpted society

The obelisks of bio-inspired faith

Our embedded wonders of the natural world

As though life flourishes without intervention

Delicate gems biding through the observed

The most sacred ripes with pure intention

Spoken only in the truest form
Plying to be heard yet ignored
Inside the light that is within
Reeling raw of inner power
Isolated from the mind and soul
Texturized essence in young and old

History is his story and manmade by his hands

Power shifting upward from scape to land

Myths of fables disguised as new

Yet if you asked to be included there is only the ‘why’ in you?

Generations of wealth given only to the chosen

Like how manifest destiny was just selective pre-destination

If black tears and dark labor can be justified through time

Then who are the ones that should be truly vilified?

Since organs dictate position and color dictate ammunition

Bruising each other only to be someone else’s competition

If you use your eyes you see gender, stature, and race

But if you look just a little deeper you see the soul of another human face

If adventures were a raindrop then journeys are the sea
Yet if it called my name, there is nothing I can answer in return
If paradoxes became paragraphs, and the present became history
Then what are the future lessons that I am supposed to learn?

If resilience was armor and ambition the sword
Then why is sacrifice the bullet rather than the shield
If prayers go unanswered as if whispers became holy word
Then what is the negation for those that yearn to heal?

Perhaps the magic in living is not the fiction tales we partake
But the small minor actions that one can be brave enough to make
If humble murmurs and mutters can shape a biased world
Then through the presence of candor may new paths be heard

Being alive is not the panacea for living
But what if being alive meant being in pain?
Perhaps there is a solitude in simply being
Stemming for the drive to live yet another day

If there is some solace in the constant giving
Projections from wounds half-healed away
Fantasizing between mental living
The acrimonies of a brain in hearsay

Colors of social norms built-in paradigm
The insanities of bare subsistence
Melting away only to freeze stolen time
As though being alive is mere existence

Is it senseless or is it sensory?

Is it my imagination or a perfect memory?

If two eyes can speak and lips can touch

Then what happens when fate runs out of luck?

If hearts can hear and tones can feel

Then what if the memories are mine to steal?

Beat by beat, page by page

Do chapters of moments bleed into age?

If attention was not driven by passion

If fear was not driven by cognition

Then what happens when you dream of salvation

Only to realize it is a song filed by emotion?

I often wonder how we can have sight but no vision

We can hear but forget to listen

And mostly, how one can talk yet be afraid to speak

Up to those who need to hear it the most

Do we truly wish to live blind, or do we truly wish to live free?

Are these two actually a dichotomy?

If scent was an introduction, then what happens before the conclusion?

If touch can give us a revelation then what happens to those we include In?

My taste may be different, albeit unique

Yet senses are hardly formal to those who truly seek

I set myself free.

I did not understand before.

But, I do now.

I never see light.

In whimsical hours, I felt only darkness.

Despair, sadness, and loneliness.

I gave up.

(Now read in reverse)

Elizabeth Ulanova

traveler| tech sociologist| visual artist| writer| 📍 landscape architecture @Harvard ’24 | @Cambridge ’20 | @Columbia ’19 | elizabethulanova.com

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