You Matter by Mario Enrique Alvarez

Just because February is almost over, doesn’t mean the love is! Sticking to our theme of Attachment, Mario sent us a poem about a lasting love; one that even through the hard times it’s still there because it is more powerful than any barrier that might get in the way.

You Matter

I woke up this morning to your gaze

And I saw that smile upon your face

You stared at me like you were in a daze

As we both occupied the same bed at your place


I painted a picture in my mind

From the dream I had last night

The image of you was all that I could find

As your beauty hugged the canvass tight


In a world so cold it embraces hate

Where we both feel like we don’t belong

But meeting you was a work of fate

Cause together we play like we’re the same old song


So I will tell you tonight

That it doesn’t matter who wins every fight

Cause your heart belongs inside mine

And you matter so much to feel just fine


Our hearts are beating but they’re still in repair

We reached a point where love just wasn’t so fair

But it’s too late now to mourn those who don’t care

And we’ll find a way to deal with the wear-and-tear


Something that I want you to understand

That I breathe a little easier when you’re around

And I never want to let go of your hand

I’ll always be there and you’ll be safe and sound


We live in a world that’s driven by hate

And it makes us feel like we don’t belong

But we both met like it was a sign of fate

And we’re so in sync like we’re the same old song


And I will tell you tonight

That all of our demons won’t win this fight

And I’ll keep it warm enough inside for you

Cause you matter so much to feel this blue


Sleep for me is not a sigh of relief

Cause my past haunts me in my dreams

But when I lay next to you I find peace

And all those dreams are now full of gleam


You told me that you don’t feel real

And loneliness is an activity in which you thrive

But your heart is one that I want to steal

And you matter to me cause you make me feel so alive


I will tell you this every night

That the darkness in our lives will soon turn bright

And even when you don’t feel fine

You’ll matter enough for me to be mine


And I will tell you this every night

That it doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right

And we both can stay in this bed

Cause you matter so much to me instead


The Intimacies of the In-Between by Hayley Adam

Happy Valentines day! Thank you to second year film student Hayley Adam for sharing these atmospheric pieces, and bringing an ethereal romance to our day.

The Intimacies of the In-Between

Often our lives are measured by milestones. By
relationships, by graduations, by successes. These landmarks are
deemed of most importance, yet occur so rarely. And it is this
that causes us to forget about the importance of the otherwise
overlooked. The otherwise overlooked that is squeezed into the
crevices of these overshadowing moments; that is known as the in
between. The in between is the irrelevancies of everyday routine.
It is softer and less climatic but it is the constant. It is
simple, raw and sometimes bland, but reality. And it is here, in
this time, that we do the most living. This series of photographs
documents the soft moments of importance. From the signs of a
changing season to a warm moment with friends, The Intimacies Of
The In Between explores the underappreciated moments of the

By: Hayley Elizabeth Adam


Two Becomes One by Matt Glavin

This piece is a beautiful addition to our February theme, exploring the implications on oneself from both emotional and literal bonds. Thank you so much for sharing with us Matt!

Two Becomes One

I want you to hold me, again. Hold me like that saxophone bit in Hot Dreams held us then; holds me now, getting intimate with my ears, winding its way through my brain tissue to peak at the thoughts within. Thoughts that, too, don’t stay. The saxophone in the song doesn’t last forever either, not even on replay. It built up the exit and crashed as its way out.

Hold me like we held each other, Hot Dreams always playing in the background; we forgot they were there. We were holding things that were more concrete, physical, real enough when you’d lean in to touch. Don’t tell me love is metaphysical. Its thick, like blood, like silence after saxophones. Sounds have substance and weight too, you know. Just like love. We tied knots, made em’ thick too. We held on tight. Strengthened with vows too, hoping it’d make our hearts stick like glue. It was concrete, we swore, squeezing our love. It was six days past New Years.

Death clings to life, too.

I hold myself now. My hand in mind. I dig from nerve-endings to neurons, doing spring cleaning, time for gardening in purifying rays of sunshine, cutting out old vines. Sometimes I trip over them, finding lost memories that have grown into roots. Their mud and muck stick to my shoes and seep into bleeding hands and scraped knees. Sometimes, I throw them aside, running to find band-aids that’ll fit cuts and tears of this size. Sometimes, I check to make sure no one’s looking then I rebury them. I’ll add a note or edit in something different because I like to think it ended better than that. I’m just hoping it’ll be easier next time I trip.

But when I’m feeling smart and (- to myself -) kind, I hold onto them. I place them, delicate as they are, in the left breast pocket of my favourite shirt. There’s a hole where that pocket was now, you kept the shirt and I don’t think I can cross the lines necessary to get it back. But anyways, when I’m smart and kind, I carry them in that shirt with me. Each of those little tragedies are all you’ve left, I have none of your things. Each one is you, are what I have left of you, but they are also mine. These precious little gifts you’ve given me, I thank you for your time. You were always so thoughtful, while I was always so full of thoughts. You’ve stolen them for a month, but we’ve had time apart and I’m getting used to the idea of having sole possession of time again. Fuck that, who am I thinking like “you” and “I” could be separates. We both knew the law of contact: two things, once connected by proximity, remain bonded forever.

I wonder what lasts longer, attachment, or eternity?
I say, it’s the silence after the sax goes.

My Letter to You by Emily Mackey and Andrea Aguiar

To start this month’s theme of Attachment, Andrea and Emily, two first year English students, wrote each other friendship letters. They took the idea of attachment and moulded it to their reality – a strong bond after only a few short months. Enjoy!

My Letter to You

Dearest Andrea,

Coming to school this year I was so worried that I wouldn’t make any friends. Or, even worse, I would make friends but the connections would not be as strong as I am used to. You see, I don’t really do well with attachment and I was scared that it was going to be impossible to meet people who pushed past those fears. The second that I met you during orientation week these fears went away for me.  You were immediately one of the sweetest, most genuine people that I have ever met. I spent a lot of that day hoping that you felt the same way, that you felt an instant attachment to me in the same way that I did with you. I know now, months later, that you did feel the same and I am so grateful for that.

I see a lot of myself in you, be it our similar interests or same love for the people around us, but I also see a lot of the person I want to become. I see your easy temper, your quiet strength, and your ability to always be selfless no matter what. I hope that throughout our friendship I can pick up these qualities and become even half the person that you are. Our bond is so strong, it is one that I will cherish forever. I feel instantly comfortable whenever I am around you. From sweaty gym workouts to two in the morning, intoxicated sleepovers. There has never been a moment where I felt awkward or uncomfortable around you. Your presence welcomes and supports me always.

Thank you for being the other half of our wonderful friendship. Thank you for allowing me to voice attachment in such a personal way, though I am finding it difficult to explain how thankful I am for you and our friendship. Twenty years down the road, when we are both successfully living our best lives here in Toronto, we will look back on our early days of friendship and laugh about all the crazy things that we did. But it will all be in good heart because, throughout it all, we had each other.



Dearest Emily,

I think people often fear attachment because of the instantaneous relation it has to being “clingy,” or so to speak. I used to fear attachment for this reason, because I didn’t want people to see me in that way. Through coming across the people I currently hold in my life I have realized that this is not true, and that being attached is a good thing. Attachment showcases the strengths in a relationship, and I have been able to explore this idea through my interactions with those dearest to me. You are one of those people.

When meeting you, I had gone into the situation knowing already that I intended to become friends with you. I worried that something would stand in the way of this, but as I write this now I cannot tell you how happy I am that nothing did. On that day you and I formed an instant bond as we shared our commonalities, and you made me feel more welcome than ever before. As we went about the activities of the day together, I knew that there was a growing attachment between the two of us, one that I was not afraid of in the slightest. It was then that I made a new friend in a place of which I thought the opposite would happen. Today, I can say that not only is that friend still with me, but she has grown into a sister and I could not be more thankful.

Each and every day our attachment grows for the better, to the point where my day begins to feel strange as a result of me not having seen you for a little while. You inspire me every day to be the best version of myself because you are who I aspire to be. We have only known each other for a short while but it feels like a lifetime, and I am excited to continue to grow the bond between us as we go into the future together. Thank you for being the best friend I could have asked for and more, I hope I have been the same to you.

Love Always,


Call for Submissions

Call for Submissions

In contrast to our previous Valentine’s edition of Short but Sweet & Sad, this year, we welcome you to contribute to our ongoing February theme, Attachments. As defined as the, “deep and enduring emotional bond that connects one person to another across time and space,” to be attached, to have entanglements, is nothing new, but interestingly unique to each. Other meanings for attachments include those of the technological and physical variety, respectively.

And so, The Continuist calls on you to share your feelings on attachment, good or bad.

Your ideas are welcomed in forms of poetry, prose, visual artwork, etc. to be displayed on our website throughout the month. Kindly send your thoughts to in .doc or .jpg format, accordingly.

Thank you, as always, for giving us an intimate view into your very personal life. Happy February!

With love and admiration,

The Continuist


Untitled Series by Madeha Jeraj

Madeha shares a passion for photography and filming in this vivid collection of portrait, landscape and object photography.

She Forgot to Pay the Bills by Aysha Anwar

In this thought-provoking piece Aysha explores the obsessive mentality of a lonely girl, who fights to find love from the world but forgets to find love for herself.

She Forgot to Pay The Bills

because what is little light lady without
the high five
the thumbs up
the smirk
the company
the nod of approval she gets from you?

you see?

little light lady wants you to love her.
little light lady has learned how to make you love her.
little light lady has created a step by step list that little light lady’ll use to get you to love her:

First, she’ll agree with everything you say
Second, she’ll listen to your favourite songs, watch your favourite shows
Third, she won’t tell you how much she hates them
Fourth, she’ll drive you to work, to school, to the grocery store
Fifth, she’ll give you the aux cord
Sixth, she’ll cry when you cry, laugh when you laugh, punch when you punch
Seventh, she’ll give your space when you need it, come back when your space is full

it works every time.

little light lady has gotten so good at
giving and giving and giving her light,
everyone has gotten so good at
taking and taking and taking and taking and taking and taking and taking it.

its a system, she says
can’t argue with the system.

but light leaves her with every breath,
escapes through her chrysalis by the second,
it darkens her smile her eyes her body when she gets home,
when she’s alone.

little light lady is now
little lady.

her cheeks so cold,
her heart so slow,
her legs so numb.

she sits quiet,
sits still.

still, little lady wants you to love her.

because what is little lady if not the high five she gets from you?

and it’s not sunny today.
and it’s snowing outside, the kind that shuts down the roads.
and it’s lonely here, the kind that makes you mad.

and the lights, they’ve just gone out.

she forgot to pay the bills.




The Universe of Us

I sawed a circle into my carpet last night. Clean through.
Choppy, choppy at best. It was more of a squircle with
a branch but never mind that. Through this branchy
squircle hole was not our stainless steel applianced
kitchen, but outer space. Real outer space, with the planets and
comets and all that spacey stuff. The entire universe lived beneath
my bedroom floor becoming thousands upon thousands of
flickering, scintillating stars in an offbeat waltz
with two left feet that bobbled and flamed and
oh the moon.
Let me tell you about the moon.
It nestled itself in the left corner of my squircle branch
rotating calmly, steadily.
A metronome serving as white noise, a mother
winking at the stars. I release this wooden fishing rod
through the squircle and into space. Into the oblivion.
I’m not much of a fisherman but once the string
pulled down I reeled in the tiniest of twinkling stars and placed it
inside a woven basket. I laughed to myself which is always so
embarrassing but I laughed until I captured
tens of hundreds of stars of varying
shape and luminosity until my voice scratched and stomach cramped.
I collected little pieces of the universe until
my fingers grew sore and my eyes heavy and my cheek fell to the
jagged gap in my floor. I slept soundly next to the stars
that night. A sugar-coated girl alone with space, wrapped in darkness,
hypnotized by the metronome of the moon.
To be honest, I actually just saw our stainless steel
applianced kitchen through that branchy squircle
and my parents will hate me for the chasmal
void I’ve left in my carpeted floor, but never mind that.
This is a story, a lullaby,
an every night whisper for my favorite insomniac
and I will continue to carve this floor
to show her pieces of the universe as long as I live.

by: Madelyn Grace

Pretty Dolls by Michelle Moreira

Michelle is a second year student in the English program at Ryerson. Michelle’s insightful look at the differences between being rich and being wealthy takes an important stand against money amounting to more than personality. Thank you for your submission, Michelle!

Pretty Dolls

The wealthy
Like their cars and their toys, where only the
Wealthy can afford.
With their wealthy make-up and wealthy lives,
Where their children go to
Wealthy schools and speak to other wealthy children.
So they learn more things
About the wealthy, and how to look
Like the wealthy.
They all crawl back to their big houses
Where they dream of more things
And fail to rest.
And you and I,
I write about you, not them.
I write about the rich. The rich
In love.
The rich in kindness, integrity
Where we all come together at a bar at 55

And talk about our rich dreams.
To travel, to learn
To live.
And so we learn how to walk
Like those who are rich in life.

“Crying in Paris” by Lannii-Lee Pettiford

Ryerson student, Lannii-Lee Pettiford’s collection of six photos, “Crying in Paris”, was titled after the photographer’s emotional response to losing the majority of the 35mm images shot during a full day of touring the city. These six photos were all that could be salvaged from the roll within the film camera after the undeveloped film was accidentally exposed to sunlight upon its removal.

Rather than spoiling the photos, the exposure added a pleasing new element to the subjects captured, giving more dimension to the images rather than taking away from them.