Blister Packs

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I feel certain moments in every cell.

Every particle of my being radiates with life.

I see cats in my windows.

That is not an attempt at poetry.

When the day turns from blue to black I pull the velvet curtains aside looking for stars, and that’s when the cats come. Creeping onto my roof from the terrace beside, they stick their heads in my room and take a look around.

A pale moon always seems to hang behind the trees. It gives a distinctly dreamy glow that settles over the neighborhood like moondust fog.


These are the hours in which I attempt creativity, by turning my phone off and aggressively listening to music. I look out the window unblinking and intently feel the sound waves spilling throughout my body. This is when I talk to God.

Some things cannot be felt in the waking hours.

There are thoughts that require stillness on earth in order to unfurl.

At a microscopic level, each cellular pocket inside me swells. I breathe in and out, my systems feed every corner of my vessel. I believe that they do this in order to facilitate my consciousness.

They do their jobs so I can think.

Mostly I think about you.

I remember the way the skin felt on the nape of your neck. Laughing until we cried when you’d fall inside of me. Transparency reveals the truth of it. I will never forget those moments, regardless of how many times you’ve failed. It doesn’t matter that you absconded.

I am still here.

People try to categorize everything that exists in some futile attempt to understand the nature of things. They gather similar things and wrap them in plastic, like tidy little pods of knowledge that will help our race make sense of it all. Blister pill packs of data from the natural world. They call this “research”, but I bitterly call it “rubbish”. Their scientific pursuits do not help me at all.


Life on earth has never made any sense to me. It’s so unlikely to occur and so overwhelmingly likely to end in catastrophe that I can’t conceive of a more pointless goal than to give names to earth’s flora and fauna.

Maybe when man finally names every single thing the world will end. Perhaps that is when our fates will reach fruition.

Where is the pod of knowledge that I fit into? What is my name, and who was I created to love? Even birds and beasts have mates. There ought to be a science that tries to make sense of nonsensical things like human love. That’s where the real mysteries are.

In fact that is my question.

How could quantitative things ever hold a candle to qualitative things?

Experience reigns supreme.


 You can’t catalogue the world because you can’t categorize love. And love is all that matters to people at the end of the day anyway. The animals don’t give a shit what we call them. They just want to be left alone.

The lack of love makes all knowledge useless to those tragic souls suffering in it’s absence.

To love is the only worthwhile reason to exist.

That is what I feel in these quiet moments. I tell it to the cats in my windows. They tell me to find people to talk to. They tell me to forgive him.


by Alicia Krawchuk

featuring artwork from Aubrey Llamas



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We are a creative hub urging you to fall in love with the fullness of who you are, a platform for introspection through all types of artistry. In essence, then, we press towards capturing the shared experience of the human condition with the appropriate blend of charm and raw honesty, offering ourselves and our subscribers a new way to conceive of and appreciate the richness of life, including even its tragedies.