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ARIES 21 March - 19 April When you hear your song, take this chance to have a boogie like no one’s watching. Find joy in the little moments. TAURUS 20 April - 20 May A wishbone never breaks even. You may feel like you always get the short end of the stick, but this month, luck is on your side. GEMINI 21 May - 20 June You see that rainbow in the sky? No? That’s because it’s hidden behind the clouds. Watch out for hidden symbols this month—the best of things often come disgui

Surface Tension – Genevieve Stokes Eleven Eleven – Conan Gray Tessellate – alt-J Champagne Supernova – Oasis BLUE SASHIKO – Lucy Park maggots for brains – Olivia Rodrigo Green Light – Lorde Reckless Soul - demo – Nia Smith no song without you – HONNE The Bluebirds – Sasha Allen I Love You – Fontaines D.C. House of Memories – Panic! At The Disco Dark Signs – Sleep Token Serenade – Emiliana Torrini Falling Slowly – Glen Hansard, Marketa Irglova Carla’s Song – Harry Styles prett

Section Editor Juliette Allen deconstructs Mahalia Belo’s Debut Film; The End We Start From Still From The End We Start From (2023, Dir. Mahalia Belo) Symbols are omnipresent in society and even more so in films, in fact symbols are said to be the secret language of storytelling. It’s no secret however that filmmakers rely on incorporating symbolism in their work in order to visually convey complex emotions and deeper themes, through bypassing exposition to uncover the story

Editorial Assistant Martha Florence Introduces her new segment: Martha’s Musing where she ruminates on life’s big and small curiosities including the enchanting language of flowers I feel I should begin by introducing this new segment—welcome to Martha’s Musings! In this little column I will muse, ponder and generally yap, and for this year’s fourth issue Symbols, I have a mini crash course on flowers and their many meanings. Flowers are heavy with symbolism. Roses are given

Editorial Assistant Raya Shayk explores the ubiquitous world of symbols and invites readers to consider the timeless question: Do we choose symbols, or do they choose us? We spend our whole entire lives surrounded by symbols that we recognise instantly. We have internalised the understanding that our entire existence is defined by these symbols. Hearts mean love. Four-leaf clovers mean luck. Peace signs mean hope. But the symbols that shape us most are rarely the ones everybo

Editorial Assistant Katrina Wang traces the history of art through enduring symbols, revealing how multitudes of meanings can be distilled into a single artform The history of art spans across time and many cultures, each a herald declares boldly to the world that we are here, that we will not be forgotten. We can spread our hands across the red marks scattered across cave walls, an echo of a person left behind in a handprint. Much of our philosophies, our thoughts, our conce

Anaya Umer investigates the seemingly true folktale behind a perfect flower. The Smeraldo Flower is a flower said to be found in a secluded region in northern Italy. Resembling an orchid in shape, these plants’ striking blue-purple petals hold a mysterious meaning in the historical language of flowers: “The truth that couldn’t be told”. The flower's message is rooted in the tragic Italian folktale of a disfigured man who found solace in isolation. Our story begins in the city

Deanna Arudselvam delves into the history of the Red Cross and its continued positive impact around the world. The Red Cross emblem is more than a symbol, it carries the message “don't shoot”, and represents a humanitarian legacy of helping people through crisis, reuniting loved ones and supporting communities in need [1]. [1]. The Australian Red Cross organisation s

Deputy Editor Bethany Sharman explores the consequences of ignored romantic signs and road signage. You drop everything to check that DM she finally sent you after you’ve been on delivered for the past 6 days. Turns out she just liked the message (unfortunate, considering the last message you sent was a question), and you wonder if it might be worth double texting. As you debate whether to ask a follow-up question, you miss your exit on the highway and begin a direct route i

Editorial Assistant Ella Barker reflects on the memories and meanings associated with her tattoos. My very first tattoo was of an Ankh. Sitting behind my right ear, it serves as a reminder of my greatest love: Egyptology. Admittedly, translating and transliterating hieroglyphs is not my specialty, but I know enough to get by. It itched deep those first few weeks, but now my hair covers it so much that I almost forget it’s there. Almost. Can you ever really forget the first ta

Editorial Assistant Daniel Palmer examines how Twin Peaks has managed to tap into audiences’ repressed urges and unconscious desires. Much can be said, and even more unable to be said, about the symbology ever-present in David Lynch’s Twin Peaks. The density of its symbolism allows Twin Peaks to mean many things to many people, a testament to the timelessness Lynch’s work has come to be associated with. Particularly pervasive in the show’s symbology is the idea of the shadow

Wealth Gap Excess Neutered Annette McGavigan Imperialism Marching Some Writer For Freedom Thích Quảng Đức It'll Trickle Down Eventually Sunset at Hiroshima by Max Brady Cooper

Today I woke up to a day that wasn't mine. It wasn't what I planned for the future, it wasn't what I anticipated. Today I woke up to a version of myself that had the wrinkles of her worst fears, texturing my “on-paper” youthful face. My eyebrows have risen with every painful encounter, while endless salt dried my skin. My hands are cold with the lack of circulation, my heart’s pieces scattered around. And most importantly, my mind is crowded with the people who aren't even t

She is the rays gifting warmth to the day And she is the shiver down winter’s spine She is a storm sweeping floods through the valley And she is flames dancing in the night She is the twinkle in the first star In a sea of deceitful satellite links She is the rope that tugs me to shore She bathes in the tears back I blink She is a teapot lovingly emptying Her warmth into each little cup She is a teapot burning and emptying Her soul till she’s left with one drop She is filled p

The church stood apart from the rest of the town, standing on a solitary hill that overlooked the fields beyond. With a steep roof and walls of stone, the building looked solid, more real than anything around it. It stood above the rest of the world; the spires growing from the roof seemed to reach for the heavens. The arched windows were slender and showed nothing, making the building look dark, as if beyond the walls lay something pure and untouched by the outside world. Th

She met life on the train. And when they spoke, it was aimed only at her, perched against a window and peering at the speeding foliage. The woman turned uncertain, for as her ears painted impossible colours, her skin warm texture, and her nose glittering dew, her eyes saw no more beings come to reside within the emptiness afore. And yet life chose to grace the moment, Bestow from an outturned hand a beauty unseeable, From which the woman drank their offer. That there vibrance

Why do human beings instinctively recognise emptiness? Perhaps absence is humanity’s oldest symbol. Tell me, what shape does absence wear? For grief has never had a face, nor longing any flesh or frame, yet finds in every emptied place a home that never bore its name. It leaves no footprint in the dust, no shadow any eye can trace, and still we feel its quiet weight wherever love has left a space. An empty chair beside the fire outlives the warmth it used to keep; the table h

When I regularly attended the gym on Central Avenue, some five years ago now, I occasionally saw a man around my age whom I am unable to forget. But I must correct myself already. I say he was a man; really, he was only nineteen or twenty. Maybe the word “man” suffices. This man, then. He was tall and athletic and surly, and when I saw him, he was always with his tall, athletic, surly friends. They stood around the gym in tight bunches and would converse in monotone voices a

Travelling through the winds, A lone dandelion seed Enters through your nostril Without a sneeze. It reaches your lungs. Wandering through the Wind pipe, a lonely Dandelion seed Settles at the bottom of Your lungs. It grows and establishes Roots within your life. It grows and grows, While you cough up blood, Wondering why?It builds new seeds, And all it takes is A sneeze, for the seeds To disperse through your life once again. Travelling through the Body, a f

I’m here I remember Three squeezes Shared playlists Peeled mandarins Red velvet cheesecake Your hair tie, my wrist Spinning ring competitions Promises made and promises kept Autumn leaves the shade of your hair Doing dishes even especially when you’re half asleep From watching movies I hate for you, to loving them because of you Wordlessly, the tomatoes on my plate replace the carrots on yours Locked eyes and shared smiles across the crowd 2 am calls when you can’t escape the

As I stood over the hill, I could see distant buildings stretching tall into the skies. Those distant buildings had once made me think of grand things. I’d look towards those buildings and lights in the distance and think of those who resided there—lives they lived, and the busyness that encompassed them. I’d think about the conversations that those people had: recounting the morning news, talking about their lives, looking forward to the end of their workshifts, or discuss

You gave me a ring A band of gold Spun in an eternal circle A symbol of our love Steady, constant, never-ending, But now you’re gone And I still have the ring Aged and weary as I am Waiting for the day I shall see you again. by Nirvana Prasad

homesickness is tugging at my skin, running through my veins and pulling at my bones. home home home, wherefore art thou? how must it feel? to be called a home? to be loved so dearly and held so gently. to know how you hold the memories and the secrets of the ones who have forgotten. to be blissfully unaware of the comfort you keep within you. within the cracks of the wall and the peeling paint of the poles. in the rusting bars and the musty staircases. in the painted and re

2:07 am A perfect time for a coffee. Heard the clock be ep. It helps me sleep. It's a ritual, mum. 5:16am A perfect time for a coffee. The world is waking up. It's just one cup. It's a ritual, mum. 9:13am A perfect time for a coffee. Starting a new job, And the office is too loud. It's a ritual, mum. 1:18pm A perfect time for a coffee? It’s a pick-me-up, Maybe a cappuccino. It's a ritual, mum. 5:14pm A perfect time for a coffee? Maybe, I don’t know, The day moves too slow. It