Boys of this town

After weeks of suppressing feelings, I heard a mention of your parallel—the polar opposite of the man I grew smitten by—and my face unconsciously turned pale pink. “He’s not like that, is he?” my brain started, as if to remind me of why I was spellbound by a golden-eyed flower in the first place.

 

He’s not like that… Why did the planets have to remind me that he is of a rare element? After burying him in a cemetery of former muses, every sunflower turned its face toward his grave. You made a pact with the universe, my lad? I built up the courage to detach the strings, but your force is graceful and pure that every living and breathing thing sway and twirl to the rhythm of your beating heart. And now I sway too…..

 

Why did I have to see reversed version that came as a form of a reality slap, screaming “Look how awful this lad is, and remember how your man is NOTHING like that. That he’s an angel compared to those wolves.

 

I had to train my heart to dwindle its beats, and I had to teach my eyes to look the other way, but pure souls like yours are hard to grow out of. You have the capacity to quicken my blood circulation and rubify my cheeks when I thought I was too old to be able to feel that way about a certain someone.

 

And I try and try and try to replace the thought of you with something else, but you’ve placed hints of your purity everywhere that it’s hard not to curl up in a corner and blush again. My God, why did you have to remind me of his good-mannered soul? Didn’t I say noble men were my weakness?

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Currently//

In a matter of days, spring will sail away with its vibrant blooms, and I’d be left with a wave of heat. This is what I do not enjoy about June: spring withdrawal is real! A lot of art-journaling took place this month, and I am trying to utilize every bit of this sudden creativity kick. Ramadan left, Eid parted ways, and I am using this blank slate for inspiration.

Listening to Yalan by Edis + Yalnız Çiçek by Aleyna Tilki ft. Emrah Karaduman

Back to drinking coffee in the A.M.

Eating an avalanche of chocolates

Celebrating Eid (but not really because it was a bit lame)

Trying to gain weight

Wearing black t-shirt, gray sweats, and my hair in a ponytail

Finishing up my Out of Void journal (art journal)

Falling in love with stationery again

Buying adhesive tape

In the spirit to dance again after Edis’s new music video, Yalan

Feeling uninspired to write after May’s break

Fangirling over Ghaith from Qalby Etmaan

Brushing Indian clay and peel-off masks on my face

Failing to read

Hoping the weather stays this good

30 ways to self care

Self love is anything but selfish. It’s putting yourself first because you’re your best investment in life. You shape yourself, you discipline yourself, and you do whatever you please and wish for. This is a list of how to look after yourself.

  1. Meditate
  2. Buy yourself something you’ve always wanted
  3. Put on a face mask
  4. Be kind to yourself
  5. Take a nap
  6. Write your thoughts
  7. Drink some tea
  8. Upgrade your old phone
  9. Form new habits
  10. Take a bubble bath
  11. Give your hair a trim
  12. Put on some fresh nail polish
  13. Read whatever genre you love
  14. Take yourself to the cinema
  15. Walk around town and reflect
  16. Delete/archive old conversations
  17. Mute, block, unfollow anyone that’s just negative energy
  18. Go to the spa
  19. Start gardening
  20. De-clutter
  21. Get yourself a gift
  22. Indulge in your favorite dessert
  23. Exercise physically and mentally
  24. Clean your space
  25. Detoxify your body
  26. Play a childhood video game
  27. Learn to terminate the conversation the minute it’s over. Don’t go home and overthink what’s been said.
  28. Light some candles
  29. Play some music
  30. Plan out your day

Rosemond 2

Giddy Rosemond trod back to Aunt Isabella’s residence, eager to tell her tale to the aunt who has been imploring Rosemond to make Mr. Barrett’s acquaintance. Prior to initiating a conversation, Rose found her muse every Saturday in this Yorkshire tearoom, and it gradually compelled a one-sided enchantment.

 

It was, as she told her aunt, “love at first sip,” and she had convinced herself that if she cannot allure Mr. Barrett into becoming her lover, that she can at the very least, pen his suave characteristics in her debut novella.

 

It was the third of May, and our Rose arose, with the morning birds, prettier than ever. She opened her walnut closet, and after much probing, she pulled out an ivory lace dress and a navy scarf. Rosemond joined her aunt in the garden, where Isabella was tending to the dianthus flowers. She kissed her niece on the cheek and tucked some pink buds in her hair, and then began: “My dear, this Sweet William symbolises gallantry. If Mr. Barrett is gallant as you acclaim, then I bid you both good luck.”

 

The valley ways of West Yorkshire were a soothing sight of lavish greenery, and the stone stiles adorning the road paved the way for the every-day commute, preventing the animals from escaping the territory and distressing travelers. Rosemond walked along the English Country cottages until she reached the alleyway where her humble fascination flourished, in early spring.

 

Before entering the diner, Rose took a glance into her worn satchel to assure that her journal is there. “I love you, Mr. Barrett,” she said under her breath, as she seated herself by the window and studied her reflection.

 

Barrett was a thirty-year-old Englishman with chestnut brown hair and soft facial features that mirrored the softness of his very core. Before making his acquaintance, Rose has felt his grace and decency from the way he carried himself to the way he made light conversations with anyone that sat next to him at the diner.

 

As Mr. Barrett walked into the tearoom with a portmanteau in hand, Rosemond felt tingliness in the limbs that she almost could not stand to greet her person of interest.

 

Barrett gallantly took Rose’s hand to plant a welcome kiss on it then sat facing his companion.

 

“I have to beg your pardon for arriving late, Rosemond. I hope the wait was not a bore.”

“Oh, folly! Your delay has only expanded my eagerness, Mr. Barrett. Do you fancy a cup of tea?”

“That would be charming!”

“May I ask about your commute? I daresay you went to see your mistress? I should like to see her in the flesh some day.”

“I’m afraid that’s an unattainable desire. I have, as one would say, broken my engagement with Clemence.”

“That’s a shame!”

“As much as I adored my Clemence, I had no wish to marry a French nymph, as my heart always sought the companionship of an English woman.”

“Aren’t we all Europeans after all? What difference does it make, Barrett?”

“How handsome is my name when you speak it, Rosemond. I should like you to always call me Barrett without the formality.”

Currently//

My problem with the month of May is this: it’s always bland. After a month packed with flowers, poetry, and tenderness, May just emerges plainly, and no matter what I try to do, my days would either go wrong or feel weird. To challenge myself, I chose not to blog for a month (excluding this post because I have to post this). I did not realize how addicted to writing I was, as I was itching every passing hour to blog.

Listening to Öle Öle by Hera feat. Ozan Doğulu + Aşkın Adı by Hakan Kahraman feat. Yusuf Güney

Drinking caramel macchiato

Eating cheese sandwiches

Wearing a navy v-neck shirt and jeans

Reading collections of lullabies and poems of the sea

Challenging myself to take a video clip of every day for a month

Also challenging myself not to blog

Compiling weekly montages

Falling back to the habit of art journaling

Feeling exceptionally resilient

Also feeling sluggish

Ticking off the last goal on my spring list

Starting the month of Ramadan with much hope

Missing the blogosphere

Anticipating stability

Your name

Two syllables form your name, but I wish you could see the way it travels gracefully from their mouths to my eager ears. So simple a term quickens the heartbeats. A few letters yet the waves and tempests they spin. A name that plants—in place of numbness—seeds of emotion. You know, when I started cherishing the trivial quirks of yours like the way you sleep diagonally or the way you dance when the food is delicious, I realized that anything you do, I find charming…. Everything. I rarely feel this way about anyone else.