Rosemond is a petite, young lady, with golden hair to the length of her shoulders. She resides in a humble dwelling in West Yorkshire with her aunt, Isabella. On the first of May, when the clime was sweeter than it was in the days of April, Rosemond took a stroll down the streets of Yorkshire and entered a tiny, French tearoom.


She unbound the leather strap of her ruddy diary, while glancing back and forth at the charming lad sitting by the windowpane. Rosemond arose from her chair and interrupted: “I beg your pardon for gazing unrestrainedly. I had hoped to pen your character in my diary.”

“Help yourself.”

“Pray, do you have someone to tend to?”

“Most certainly, I do. Her name is Clémence. She is six and twenty years old.”

“Ah, lucky lass is she. Mind if I accompanied you?”

“I do not mind the company of a fair lady.”

“That’s courteous of you to say. I am called Rosemond. May I ask your name?”

“What an elegant name you have, Rosemond. My name is Barrett.”

“Mr. Barrett, if you’d be kind enough to tell me about Clémence, I would heed earnestly. I had seen you many a times in this tearoom, and I have had an urgency to learn who has the honor to call this debonair gent her eternal lover, for my book at least. I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Barrett, should you think it’s intruding of me to write about you?”

“I have to say I am taken aback by this declaration, but I admire your honesty, Rosemond. You say you find me debonair then?”

“It’s funny you took no regard to anything I’ve said but to that word. I have promised my publisher to have my writing ready by September, and I’d hate to be a bore, Mr. Barrett, but could you tell me of your union?”

“I’m afraid I have to catch the train in a few minutes, but I may part with this: my own Clémence is a lady I tend to like a garden. I kiss her stems every morn.”

“Ah, I should think it unkind of you to bid me farewell to a spine-chiller. Would you grace me with another visit soon?”

“I’ll find you here on the third of May. Nice to meet you, Rosemond.”

“Pleasure is all mine. Safe travels, Mr. Barrett!”



Do you know what I want right now, my lad? I long for a car ride with you: you driving me to The Coffee Club, where we would lounge for hours, and you’d talk aimlessly, and I would heed with an undying admiration to everything you say because how can one not love your chatter?


When you talk, it’s as if you’re perfuming the atmosphere with every utterance. My lad, it’s stupid to say this out loud but I love it when you drive me places even when I can drive myself. And though you love to speed when you’re driving alone, you drive meticulously when I’m with you; I appreciate that a lot. I just love it when you drive me anywhere.


It’s stupid to say out loud but there’s this sense of protection and nurturing I feel when you say: “No, no. Allow me. I insist,” and you take the car keys from my hands. “I don’t want to trouble you,” you say.


You know, in between the journey, I love to sneak glances of you as you drive, one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand holding mine gently. It’s almost as if I find it attractive. I am pretty sure it’s a universal feeling: every girl finds her man dreamy behind the wheel. You’re so cute when you drive, my lad.


And when you park your car in reverse and you get it right from the first try, I am just in awe of it all. Two hours down the road and I ask you if you’d like to switch turns, and you gasp as if I offended you. You say you don’t want to trouble me… that’s so.. how do I say it… manly of you? Charming? Maybe charming is the word.


And you’re always up for anything. Anything. I casually mention that the moon is dressed in full glory, and you pull over immediately. You seat me at the back of your truck and we’d gaze at the stars as if we’re seeing them for the first time.


And any idea that pops in my head, whether feeble, stupid, or unattainable, you’d want to make it happen regardless. I tell you that I crave some sunflowers in our garden. You pull over at the supermarket and I think to myself that maybe you’re thirsty for some refreshments. I eagerly open the grocery bag to see what snacks you got us only to find a wrap of sunflower seeds.

“You didn’t!!”

“I did!”


I know that what makes my heart flutter might sound simple to you, but you actually listened to my desires regardless. You care for me. You’re too precious to me, my lad. Do you know that?


I love it when you drive me anywhere.


No, stop! Stop it this instance! And implore the tulip to stop lending me her tint of blush when you are far afield! Why is my skin flushing all hues of crimson when it’s not your season?


Enough! If my brain would just cease imagining verses from the nineteenth century as if they were dedicated from you, written by you, solely for me, when you don’t even know I exist; you don’t know when I bloom. I am here, an insignificant forget-me-not waiting to be plucked by no one but you.


A few kind words from you quicken the beats of my heart, and my petals shiver to your softness. I don’t do too well with words, and you know that; every word you utter, my dear, sounds like a serenade.


It’s unjust to endure a fondness to a human who will never exchange the same fervency because his eyes would always swim toward the fields of marigold.


But forget me not.


Only God knows how I anticipated March with much urgency, and a rush of yellow ink filled up my veins as it came. I don’t think a lot of happy things took place this month, but because I started it with joy and eagerness, my heart would only remember it as blissfully yellow. I am very fond of spring, and being preoccupied with flowers and poetry is the best way to spend my days. So thankful for March.. so thankful.

Listening to Söz by Aydın Kurtoğlu + Beni İyi Sanıyorlar by Oğuzhan Koç

Eating walnuts and almonds

Reading books outside my usual reading genre

Slowly making the switch from sugar to honey

Facing all sorts of slumps: reading slump, writing slump…etc

Wearing a heart locket

Drinking cappuccino with honey and cinnamon

Ticking goals off of my spring checklist

Running out of space for my books

Planting tecoma seeds & wistfully awaiting next March to witness its growth

Trying my hardest to clear my skin out (but failing)

Feeling unusually cheesy and lovey-dovey

Revisiting my favorite poetry books

Craving a new flower crown

Also craving having more flower plants in our garden

Looking forward to turning twenty five


Some week or two ago, I woke up with strange pimples on my face… pimples I am not used to seeing. For the next few days, I found myself bed-bound, bothered by the fact that my skin, that already looks like a teenager’s skin, was showing no signs of clearing.


That was how I wanted to cope with it: resorting to my bed with endless whys buzzing in my head. I might even cried at some point too. Isn’t that how people would normally react, I wonder?


Now I don’t know if my next move was motivated by my own determination or by the book “Positive Imaging” that I was reading, but I decided that worrying and questioning this adversity is doing me no good. I told myself this: “Okay, so this is your new challenge. What’s your game plan? What do you plan to do to get it solved?”


I researched, and whether or not the Google results were valid to my case, I tried to follow. There was a high chance that my sugar intake was unmonitored given that our house was flooding with post-baby-delivery chocolate trays and post-engagement halwas. (I appreciate our traditions, but RIP diet!)


I switched from sugar to honey, and I decided to pay more attention to what my body is telling me. After all, I’ve been having imbalanced eating habits from eating normally when my weight is good to overeating when my weight goes down.


The horror-inducing pimples were gone. It was that simple. The rise of this problem came only to tell me two things:

  1. To be mindful of what I put into my body
  2. To thank God for what I already have and seek God for better.


I could’ve easily continued to wallow in sadness and confusion, but all that would’ve come from this coping mechanism was a problem elongated. It would’ve only dragged my problem beyond its intended time.


Perhaps a simple story in facing adversities (though I omitted the scarier parts of this issue), we need to learn to quickly grab our pens and notepads, write a list, and attack. Worrying doesn’t help; a change of perspective does.


And perhaps it’s abnormal to face a difficulty and choose to see what it’s trying to teach you because a normal person is bound to say: Why me? Why this? Why now? But give it a whirl.


Next time you undergo trouble of any sort, try to tell yourself: Okay, so where do we go from here? What’s my plan of attack?


How is she alive? How is she soaring?

Has she no ounce of care to spare?

Climbing clouds while others snoring,

Say, how is her excess euphoria fair?


She skips on yellow-and-gray flooring,

An aroma of optimism fills her air,

Same winds crowds claim are boring,

Dismissing then her glee unfair.


To her, the raindrops come pouring,

For their pleasure, they don’t dare,

And when an energy dark they bring,

They beg rainbows to visit their lair?


Jeez! Let her be; may joy to her cling!

And may the bees play with her hair;

And should your heart urge a fling,

Ask her a shred of heaven to share!

Dancing amid the ruins

Dear reader,

As the pages of my life turn with roar, I am just fascinated that I am standing still. Not to praise my firmness, but in my daily reflections, I cannot help but contemplate how on earth did I do this? Of course, I cannot credit anyone but God at this point, but wow. Just wow!


If I can grab someone and seat them somewhere to tell them of all the things I’ve been through during my twenty-five years of existence, they’ll sob their eyeballs out. It wasn’t an easy life, but you would NEVER catch me without a smile.


And what saddens me to say out loud is that during all of this, no one was ever there for me; and what saddens me more is that I didn’t need them to. I chose silence. I chose to struggle in silence.


From family disputes to drama to health to fines to anxiety to people never wishing us well to car accidents, I let everything boil and boil until I wept hysterically in the comfort of my bedroom. And I dare to come out of my cave as if life has never shown me a bad day. And with that, trust that I am not trying to be fake. I just don’t want to wear my sorrow on my sleeve.


When I smile, that fake optimism fools me into thinking that everything in my life is great, and in a sense, I believe it that I forget I even have issues to deal with!


I’ve been feeling low for more than a month now, yet no one detected it, and I love that! There are so many people who offer to help and listen, yet I can’t trust anyone with my problems, and I’d rather not disclose. Is my life great? No! Should I be sad about it? No!


And to each their own. This is how I cope: dancing amid the ruins. And I am fine, my reader. With God by my side, I am always fine.