Everything was always the same. Wake up, get dressed, spend eight hours slouched over a desk doing absolutely nothing, come home, eat, study, shower, sleep — repeat. Such a dull routine made life seem utterly meaningless.

Every day, I walked the same route as the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that – you get the point. It was starting to get seriously annoying and even the music didn't help anymore because I had already heard every single one of those songs a million times and knew every single lyric to them.

I guess that really started to affect my mood and the way I treated people. I became easily frustrated by the smallest of things and would snap at my friends in an instant. I felt sorry immediately afterward, of course, but I just felt so stupid apologizing all the time so I eventually stopped doing that and kind of drifted away from my friends.

I knew things were seriously bad when my usually vivid and completely out of the place dreams were replaced by complete darkness – nothing more. I was starting to lose my most precious thing. My imagination. It was what I defined myself with, and without it, I didn't know who I was. As I was walking down the pavement, spiraling into my thoughts, I didn't see the car speeding toward me.

All I remember is waking up in a hospital, surrounded by people talking about some kind of accident. The doctor was explaining how I had suffered some severe injuries and was lucky to be alive, as I had flatlined not once but twice on the operating table. But beyond that, I couldn't really focus on anything else he was saying – there were colors dancing around him. Everything looked so vivid, so alive. And for the first time in a long while, I felt happy.

When I got out, everyone was gathered around me. I couldn't be alone for a second, but to be completely honest, I didn't mind it. My friends tried reconnecting with me, and I happily let them. I had missed our coffee hangouts. Strangely enough, I also felt the urge to hang out with my family, something I hadn't really done before. I wanted to meet new people and even try new food. That was completely out of character for me, but I started to see the little things and how much they really matter in life.

One day, when life felt a bit much again, I went for a stroll through the woods. The wind in my hair, sunrays on my skin and birdsong all around me. I took a deep breath and took in the scenery before me. That really put my mind at ease, and I found my spark again. There were ideas rushing through my mind and I ran home to write them all down because I just couldn't afford to forget them.

I had to die to learn how to live. But I made a decision: things would be different. I was going to live fully — every single day, as if it were my last.

Author: anonymous 

Stop. This can be a turning point. Reach the top shelf. Take that book, the one that helped you plan your life. Wait. Not your life, a life. That planned life is not your life. Tear every page as you shatter your dreams. Wait. Again, not your dreams. They were built for you, not by you. Think. Your life is not long enough to fulfil every one of them. Yes, your life. You are sitting in a pile of torn pages, but don’t worry. Those pages are not enough to fill your life. Wake yourself up. The hands of the clock are scraping against the edge of the day. The day was not long enough to hold every thought that crossed your mind. What about tomorrow? Stop, but this time, stop to see, stop to hear, stop to discover. Think of time. Time doesn’t stretch; it snaps if pulled too far. What will you do tomorrow then? Let it slip or embrace it? What is ‘it’? Your life.

Author: Yeşim Aygün

The weather has been dull and dreary for multiple days now. Well, at least it's not super windy or else the blinds would give out. The Internet is already bad enough, but not as bad as it was during the pandemic lockdown. My street has never had a strong Internet connection, but during 2020 it was especially notorious. Every time I had to send in a test, the Internet would buffer resulting in my nervous breakdown. I watch the raindrops holding a book I'm pretending to read, a half-burnt cigarette my folks aren’t supposed to know about, and a glass of mineral water. Jesus, why can’t I stop smoking? Even my cousin has gotten herself a job in the industry. She works at British Tobacco now, selling those colored pencils that taste like mango. Looking at the window, all I can think about is that stupid children’s song we used to sing in elementary school: “Kiša pada, trava raste, gora zelena!” I can’t wait to go out for coffee tomorrow with that new girl I met. I will finally get out of the house. But hey, at least I don’t have to study, this is pretty relaxing. And you know what? The song isn’t even that stupid. Ping! “Leave a phone message after the beep.” “Honey, grandpa died.”

Author: Laura Škalamera 

“I want to get off.“

“You can’t. You know you can’t,” you hear a soothing voice from the other side of the cabin.

“No, you don’t understand. I need to get off. Now,” you reiterate, your hand clenching the edge of your seat so hard that your fingernails leave an imprint in the slightly worn-off leather.

“But why? The view from up here is so nice,” the person says and looks at you with a gentle smile on their face. You know they mean well, but in that moment all you want to do is punch them in the face.

"What do you mean ‘why’? It’s fucking terrifying, that’s why. I hate heights. I hate feeling out of balance. I hate not being in control. I hate how the cabins shake and rattle as the wheel swings. Do you need me to go on?” Each sentence that exits your mouth is louder and angrier than the previous one.

The other person keeps looking at you, apparently unbothered by your tone.

You sit in silence for a while. Your anger passes, leaving room for other unpleasant emotions. You feel a slight tickling sensation on your cheek, only to realize it’s just a tear. You’re crying and shaking, and you are so, so scared.

“I know,” the soft voice reassures you. “You’re right, it is scary. You desperately want control, only that you can’t have it. Neither can the people in other cabins. Eventually, you will get off the Ferris wheel. But please, wait, just for a moment. Look. Look out of the window. Isn’t the view pretty?”

You slowly turn your head towards the window. At first, you don’t see much. The city looks gray and a thick cloud of fog engulfs the houses and skyscrapers. You shake your head and rub your eyes to wipe off the remaining tears. And you keep looking through the stained window glass. The longer you look, the more you see. There are trees and tiny figures on the streets and parts of the houses glow when sunrays hit their glass windows. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not as gray as you thought. Maybe you won’t get off just yet.

Author: Maria Leana Đolonga 

You buy scented candles, porcelain sets, beautiful clothes, fancy alcohol, fine fabrics and wait for the most perfect occasion to use them.

                     And then you die.

And the porcelain sets and the expensive wines and the unused fabrics get passed down, mother to daughter, alongside the cautionary tale. “Don’t be like my mother—don’t wait for the perfect occasion. Do what makes you happy today.” Despite saying that, she won’t use those items either, but she will pass them on to her daughter after her death. And the cycle continues.

         It’s a cycle of continuous procrastination, of putting off all joys in life until the “perfect” moment comes along, but nobody ever tells you that the perfect moment doesn’t exist. The perfect moment will never come. Nobody ever tells you the damage you do to yourself when you assign such importance to simple joys, when you refuse to allow yourself those simple joys unless you, in some way only known to yourself, earned them. How much happiness have you let go like that? How much happiness will you let go like that?

         Let’s put it this way: you deserve happiness regardless of whether or not you “earned it”. I could easily tell you all about how earning is subjective, how one person might earn rest after a hard day’s work, while another ought to be rewarded just for braving the day. This is true. But a truth that is far more important is that there is no rule that dictates you must do something to allow yourself joy. That is a lie that we have slowly been fed over our lives, by the various systems that exist in our daily lives. As a child, dessert is earned if you eat your vegetables, going out to play is earned if you do your homework, and these methods work when it comes to raising a child, purely because children need to be bribed to be responsible at first. But it is a conditioning we must break out of as adults. What was once used as a simple reward system to encourage good behaviour, in adulthood can morph into something more akin to a punishment system. Refusing to allow yourself rest, refusing to allow yourself a dessert, an episode of your favourite show or an hour investing in a hobby—why? Because you feel as if you haven’t finished all the work you were supposed to finish by that time? Exhaustion will set in; there are limits to how much work you can do in a day. Don’t make yourself miserable by trying to make yourself productive.

         It never stops there. Soon, you tell yourself that all you have to do is finish your work and then you can rest. All you have to do is get through today. All you have to do is get through this week. All you have to do is get through this month. This term. This year. This…

When does it end? Where does enduring end and living start?

         It doesn’t. For as long as you allow it to continue, it will continue.

         The perfect moment doesn’t exist, not on its own. The perfect moment will never come, not on its own. But by uncorking the expensive wine to pair with a Friday dinner, by putting on your best outfit for your daily walk, by bringing out the porcelain set for your morning coffee—you can create the perfect moment. Instead of waiting for the Day When Everything Will Be Okay, make today that day. Allow yourself joy.

         Nobody lives forever. Don’t waste your life waiting.

Author: Ivana Kocen 

I tried to live my life as best as I could. I tried to make the best decisions for myself, usually playing it safe. I tried to be helpful—to matter in a way that would make others around me happy. I felt that if I made decisions to better the world around me, I would benefit from it as well. My fate would be sealed as a good one, and I would live happily; content with how I'd spent my time on Earth.

Sadly, I started noticing lately that because of this, a lot of people saw me as an easy mark; someone they could walk all over, use as they wish. And I didn't complain. Not usually. I didn’t mind being used as long as I was being helpful.

You need help moving out? Sure, I'll help you.

You need me to drive you to the airport? I'm your man.

You need a shoulder to cry on? I got two.

But lately I started getting this funny feeling every time I noticed this happening. A little unpleasant, gnawing feeling that I can only compare to the sensations caused by having to listen to my parents telling me off for breaking my grandma’s porcelain figurines when, in fact, it was obviously my brother who knocked them down from the mantelpiece above the fireplace. But God forbid their baby boy did something so awful. Why, he’s an angel.

It was resentment. Although I couldn’t quite figure out if I resented my friends—if you can call them that—for treating me like a doormat, or myself for allowing them to. It was that exact feeling that made me start thinking I should probably take a moment to step back and re-examine my life, my choices and figure out the best exit plan. But I could probably do that tomorrow.

Spoilers. I did not do that tomorrow. Or the next day, the following week, or even this month. The feeling, however, festered. It came to the point that I couldn’t even look my friends in the eye, and the very sound of their voices was so revolting, it made my stomach turn.

Then a woman came by one day. A woman I knew from years before. We dated for a brief two months, but she ended it and ran off with another man. It did not break my heart. I felt bad for a bit, but I didn’t make a fuss. I bid her farewell, wished her happiness in life and sent her off into the arms of another man with a smile. I didn't deserve it, I know. But it's just one of those things in life, you know? And if it made her happy, who was I to keep her from it?

She said she needed my help. She didn't specify what, where, or when. Just—

"Follow me. Quickly."

Something in my gut dropped. And it wasn't the Mexican dinner I had just hours before. Something told me not to follow her. I had a weird feeling, but before that feeling could rationalize in my brain, I was already grabbing my jacket and following her.

We traversed the narrow streets of the desolate town until the cobble streets were behind us, and the dirt paths led us to a clearing.

She turned to me. Her face was different in the moonlight. It was pale and sunken;  starved. Nothing like what she appeared in the warm light of my apartment: cheeks rosy, eyes bright and full of life. She appeared fake. Not all human. Not all there.

“What's going on? Why are we here?” I ask.

“You have been chosen.”

“By?”

“As the representative.”

“By?”

“By the High Universal Council.”

“Oh.”

“You are to represent the Earth.”

“Right.”

“You will be summoned.”

“Where?”

She didn’t say. But in a flash of white light, she disappeared. It was all very peculiar, but I decided that the walk home would soothe my mind and help me make sense of it. If not, I hoped to forget it and brush it off as late-night delirium. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

I did not, in fact, deal with it tomorrow. I forgot about it. The whole thing was so odd that I thought I’d dreamed it.

And then a few months later, as I am brushing my teeth in my underwear, staring at the stubble on my face and thinking how I need a shave, I find myself in the middle of a colossal stadium with hundreds, if not thousands of creatures staring at me.

 “Good… morning?”

“Earth Representative?”

“I suppose.”

“How do you plead?”

“Huh?”

The creature with the giant forehead stares at me like I’ve grown another head, which was quite rude of it, seeing as it had three.

“The fate of the Earth. Its salvation or demise. You have seen the good and the bad. You have faced the injustice of humankind. Do you consider humankind and the Earth itself to be worthy of salvation and, consequently, preservation?”

“Are you asking me to decide whether or not I want my home destroyed?”

“Yes. It is your responsibility.”

A moment of silence. I weighed my options. The choice seemed ridiculously obvious. Save the Earth. But it also got me thinking. A devil on my shoulder whispering in my ear. I shook my head.

“Look, man...” I raise an eyebrow and briefly pause, considering my choice of words. That was obviously not a man. “Look, as long as I breathe, I have hope that things will be better. I always said we all must strive to be better and to do better. Bad times pass, and good things eventually come around. We can’t just give up and destroy everything because we feel a bit bad about it.”

But then I remembered something. That little devil put it in my heart. Just before this, I was getting ready to meet my friends. And that same resentment took over me, and something clicked. It hit me like a strong gust of wind in my back, and I decided to go along.

“Is this your final answer? You wish to preserve the Earth and all its inhabitants?”

“You know what, actually? No. I condemn humankind to extinction. But do it tomorrow, please. Give us a day. To prepare.”

“Very well. One day.”
Without another word and with a bright flash of light, I found myself back in my bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. I checked my watch and noticed I’d be late for the meeting with my friends if I didn’t hurry up.

When I got to the café, I saw them huddled around the small table, smoke rising from the ashtray and the coffee nearly finished. They laughed at something and seemed completely content without me. Like I was an extra piece that tried to fit into the puzzle that was already complete. I didn’t belong and I resented that.

I came up to them and greeted them. Before I even had a chance to pull up a chair and sit down, Janet piped up.

“Hey, Mark, do you think you could—..”

I felt a twist in my gut, my throat drying up when I heard her. I could not do this. I couldn't even act it out and build up to my grand revelation. I stood up and cut her off.

“No. No, I don’t think I could, Janet.”

I couldn't say anything more. I felt no need to justify myself anymore now that I knew what tomorrow would bring. Now that I knew there was no more time to postpone facing difficult decisions. I simply walked away. I had never felt more alive than in that moment. It was brief, but the effects lingered. My cheeks were hot, my heart pounding and my palms sweaty, and I couldn't help but smile. I had just established my first boundary. All it took was bringing about the end of the world. But that's a problem for tomorrow's me.

Author: Valentina Sikirić 

Today is the day.

Is today the day?

Today's the day!

I paced around the sunlit room; the coffee was getting cold. My gaze kept darting around. The window, the dirty dishes in the sink, the fluffy pillow on the couch, the stain on the carpet. But it always returned to the table, dreading.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. I should really quit smoking. I'm really not sure about that pain in my lungs.

Today's the day.

I take a sip of the coffee then resume pacing. I jump around. Do some squats. I even attempt to do some pushups, failing phenomenally. It was the jumping jacks that destroyed me. I had to sit down. But then my leg started bouncing. Even before the strenuous activity I could feel my heart pounding against my ribcage.

Deep breath. Ache. Pounding. A twitch in my fingers.

I shot up from the couch, darted toward the table and reached for the phone. The number was already dialed. I nearly pressed the call button. Nearly.

I close my eyes.

“Today's the day. Come on.”

I finally pressed the button. The line begins to ring. Once. Twice.

“Good-...”

I hung up. Deep breath.

I can't do this. I’m gonna throw up.

I dial the number again. The same woman picks up, repeating the greeting. I freeze.

“Uhh… Hi.” I clear my throat and continue with a shaky voice. “Um, I'd like to make an appointment with Dr Brown?”

Author: Valentina Sikirić

Rising with the sun. It is not always easy to do so, but I do it anyway. They tell me I'm crazy. They tell me to grow up. But is it crazy? Is it crazy to want to do more? To fit in 24 hours, what people usually stretch out into a week? So, what if I'm crazy? I would rather be seen as crazy than as boring. I might die tomorrow or the day after that, or next week. Frankly, I don't know when I’ll leave this world, but I do know that I will not have any regrets when I do. I will not allow myself to have any. So yes. Yes, I will seize the day. I will do in 24 hours what you take forever to do. I will travel, and I will enjoy today. I will do stupid things, and I will do smart things. And you can all tell me I'm crazy. But at least I am seizing the moment.

Author: Sandra Silaj 

She was a small part of a very vivid, alive moment in time. Music was incredibly loud, making her heart beat faster and stronger. Or better? Outlasting every rational thought in her head with the help of alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. A blink. A beat. A new glass of alcohol in her hand. Her mind was getting cloudy. Alcohol also helps her ignore the smell. A huge crowd of horribly sweaty, stinky half-naked bodies, not allowing her to escape. A circle of people so tight she couldn't avoid touching someone's sweaty back or being crushed. Having someones armpit very close to her face was a brutal reality of being only 5‘4‘‘, even in high heels.

Disgustingly sweet smoke from vapes surrounds her and makes her eyes water. She can feel her contact moving and stinging her eye, bothering her enough to ask herself why did she ever think wearing contacts was a good idea? How is she supposed to get out of this crowd to somewhere safe enough to take her contacts out? There is no way she can move her hands precisely enough to at least put eye drops in them. Where even is her bottle with eye drops? And her contacts case? Did she even bring them? She could feel her eyes burning and itching and could imagine she looked like a cheap hooker with her dark makeup all smeared from her poking her eyes, making her eyes tear up in the process, all in hopes that the contact goes back into the place and.

She looks back at her friends, hoping someone is gonna notice her panic-stricken face, but her friends are too far gone to pay any attention to her. Drunk, screaming lyrics to the songs sober she despises and staring at guys that she knows sober she would never go for.

She usually joins them, singing and dancing on days when she can ignore everything around her. When just for few a hours, her desperate attempt in feeling alive actually works. Tonight is not one of those nights. She knew it wouldn't be, the moment one of her friends asked them to go party in some new cheap club that has just opened. They all yelled excitedly in agreement, except for her, who yelled excitedly, too, only a tiny bit less. She still decided to go because, really, how bad could it be?

Turns out it could be really bad.

She could feel the annoyance and panic starting to set in really fast. The contact in her eye was still bothering her. Again, why did she ever think wearing contacts was a good idea?

Or high heels to make matters worse?

A sweaty fat guy elbowed her in the ribs for the third time. Great. Another person stepped on her foot. She hates this song; they‘ve played it three times tonight already. She can't inhale fully from the smoke, making her breathing shallow.

Everything is slowly starting to spin. The more shallow her breathing gets, the faster her heart beats and the faster everything spins.

She needs to sit down. Yes, that is right. Her legs feel funny, and she doesn't know how long they will hold her before they give out and she crumbles on the floor. She needs to find somewhere to sit and get there as soon as possible.

Losing control. She can feel her feet moving somewhere, step by step. Somehow, she feels the wall. Good, wall means good. It means somewhere close to it is a place to sit. By some miracle, she finally finds a spot to sit down right before her legs give out. She can barely feel them or control them anymore.

The world is still spinning so fast, but it gets worse if she closes her eyes. She forces them to stay open. Lights are aggressively flashing on a mass of drunk, sweaty bodies. She can't see her friends anymore, but she knows they are there, somewhere, just having fun, dancing.

She should be there with them, dancing, being young, and feeling alive.

Isn‘t that the whole point? Being young? Soon she will be 45 with three kids and won´t be able to do this anymore. She should use her time while she still has it.

She thought drinks would make it more fun, but they didn't. She thought a sexy outfit, a full face of makeup and high heels will make her more confident, but they didn't.  Why wasn't it making her less self aware of her every move? Or what she looked like? She thought cigarettes would make her feel more powerful, but they didn't. She feels like she doesn't belong there, like she's not a part of the picture. Everything only made her more miserable.

She couldn't even justify her presence here?

How did she end up here, thinking this, THIS, will make her feel more alive?

She's always chased that, to just FEEL life, to not have to actively think about how to achieve that feeling all the time. She did everything others told her to do. Studied the way they acted and followed precisely their instructions and advice.

She got herself a nice group of friends: funny, sexy and good girls. Just good. She learned the lyrics to all the horrible songs she couldn´t stand by herself, learned to walk in high heels and how to do her make up perfectly. She learned how to flirt with guys, how to smoke and what drinks to mix with which drugs.

She did everything to become a perfect part of that picture of belonging and being alive.

Yet, she failed.

If anything, it made her feel more like a coward, betraying herself for an easy fix.

Suddenly her ears are ringing, forcing her to ignore the horrible music. Silence sets in...

She is finally alone in her head.

God bless that silence.

She tried everything to run away from it.

It usually makes her feel deeply alone, yet now in this moment of desperation and pure panic she welcomes it with open arms.

Just keep on focusing on that ringing, she tells herself. Breathe. Alive? If she feels alive, that's it right? You are living if you feel alive.

She is very bad at it, living, she realizes each time.

She likes her friends, she does. But who the fuck is this person in this tiny skirt wearing high heels? She imagines how her face must look right now, her makeup all ruined, red lipstick smeared and, tears still slowly dripping down her face and, she feels ashamed. She likes her friends. She does. But she thinks too much around them while she speaks. Her laugh is a tiny bit quieter, her words a tiny bit more thought out, and her manners a tiny bit more careful.

She thought going to places she hates but everybody else loves will make her love them too.

She hoped alcohol would help. It never does.

She hoped music would help. She can't even hear it anymore.

She welcomes the silence with wide open arms.

Author: N.I. 

It was 1962. The Berlin Wall, a structure that stood as an unbreakable divider of a once united city, now separating families and friends, dividing even apartments in half. Arthur Damon, an American soldier with the ambition to break the division, stood in a torch-lit basement in West Berlin. In front of him was the map of the city coloured in numerous red dots marking Allied checkpoints and blue dots indicating Soviet positions. He was not alone. A prominent figure was Helga Gunter, a young German woman and member of the resistance forces. Just like many others, her brother had been trapped in East Berlin since the construction of the Wall.

 Arthur was determined to cross the wall, no matter what. The thing that caused the biggest problem was that Soviets guarded the Wall day and night and shot imposters on sight. Arthur had been planning this secret operation for months, gathering his closest friends and supplies and carefully planning the strategy. The operation would carry risks such as collapsing tunnels, betrayal, and, the worst, capture by Soviet forces.

Suddenly, out of the crowd gathered in the basement broke out a low male voice: “We dig! Under the Wall! A secret passage!” The man saying that was Daniel Sholtz, a young member of the resistance.

Days that followed were used for searching the city for the ideal location where they could start digging. Finally, it was decided to settle on a bombed-out building near Potsdamer Platz. Progress of the tunnel was visible already after the first few days, despite digging with shovels and even improvised tools such as buckets, pots, and pans. Each night, they would smuggle supplies through the streets, mindfully avoiding Soviet patrols.

Their successful progress on the initial plan was torn the evening when a member of their team, desperate for money and fearing for his own life, sold them out to the Soviets. They were ambushed! As they emerged from the tunnel, the harsh light of Soviet searchlights spotted them. Arthur Damon and the majority of his team that was on duty digging that evening were bound with rough rope and taken to a building on the outskirts of East Berlin. There the brutal interrogation took place. The Soviets used every method at their disposal—sleep deprivation, beatings, psychological torment—demanding to find out the names of their accomplices, the location of their supplies, and the purpose of their tunnel. But Arthur’s fellowship remained silent.

Imprisonment lasted so long that they lost track of time, and some of the prisoners started to hallucinate. One freezing winter night, Arthur stared at the ceiling of their cell. His stare was disrupted by the faint sound. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him like many times before, but as the sound grew louder, he realized that something was really happening. Arthur and his cellmates gathered in fear, unaware of what was going on. In a few minutes the dirt-covered face of a young man emerged from the floor. It was Daniel Sholtz, the man who had proposed digging the tunnel in the first place. Behind him, a group of resistance forces, led by Helga Gunter, stood waiting. Just as the imprisoned group started to escape…

BOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!

Author: Dora Dadić