In our past issues, we have defined themes and invited our community to respond. For This I’ve Never Lived Before, we asked our growing community of writers, poets, and artists to submit their finest unpublished work, unbound by theme. We held our breath in hopes that the world — fractured and grieving — still has space for art. While the submissions we received came from around the world, it was clear that something immense transcended the physical distance. Sitting with the final pieces before us, we recognized patterns, recurring imagery, and echoes of shared experiences emerge across the works — isolation and connection, sadness and reverence, lonely souls glimmering with cautious optimism. Some pieces respond directly to the horrific events of October 7th. Others wrestle with the senseless reality of a devastating war with no end in sight. Others still were born before it all, and so this issue is a product of both peace and conflict; of unique perspectives and universal themes.
Seeking to honor our own artistic impulse and create with our contributors, we derived our title, This I’ve Never Lived Before, from the last line of the final poem, altering the syntax to reflect the totality of the works. We found that the original line reverberated through every word, brush stroke, and shutter click of the issue. ‘This’ is not all-encompassing. It is not ancient histories or far-off futures, but rather the present moment — full of pain, numbness, abrupt endings, and possibility.
In the visual works of this issue, solitary figures feature prominently — a single house in a vast field; a woman and her shopping alone on a bench — reflecting the artists’ isolation. Distorted shapes, colors, and chaotic scenes create a sense of unease, ever-present, just beneath the surface. The characters are aware of their displacement and seek to correct it through prayer and protest.
“I am vexed and I am grateful and I am overwhelmed and I am underwhelmed and I consider how much longer I can go on like this.”
The poems amplify dissonances. They are written largely in the first person, further emphasizing individual efforts to cope, process, heal, and rise to love again. Some alternate effortlessly, with social-media-scrolling speeds, between grizzly images of war and mindless scenes from our virtual lives. Some ask more of the world. Guilt, love, and absurdity are in constant dialogue as these poets struggle to make sense of a persistent stream of unbearable news and still go on living.
“There are too many fires almost breaking out, and in the balance, too many lives.”
The prose pieces are animated by vivid characters, seeking out connection — to the self, to family, to friends, and to firs — each in their own unique, twisted way. The speakers desire to understand and be understood, and their failures to do so feed back into their isolation. More than once, our writers remind us that to laugh in the face of absurdity is to embrace being human.
“How strange it is that a bad experience can be worth more in the end than a good one.”
To these lonely, vulnerable, eclectic, and brave artists, we thank you for daring to connect and trust us to collect your words, images, and ideas, and present them to the world. To our dear readers, we hope these honest offerings and glimmers of optimism find their way off these pages and into your hearts. You hold a memento from a time and place that none of us have ever lived before.
With love,
The WRITE-HAUS team
