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
March and April held hands to part,
Alas, I beg them stay many a day!
Adieu sweet poetry! Farewell art!
It’s time for May to lead the way!
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.
Tuck a bud behind my ear?
Hush the clamor of my fear?
Whisper words I ache to hear?
Call me bonnie lass, call me dear?
You were assigned a tasteful flower
A two-toned daffodil, merging the
Pearl of winter and the gold of spring;
Honeyed the taste, enticing the scent,
Blue butterflies upon your sight sing,
Wistful lovers upon your field fling,
Shy daisies upon your stems cling.
Is there a wrong in craving to scribble and giggle?
And, perchance, needing pecks of pink and red?
Abundant are my feelings; they sing and whistle,
They chase the tiny bees teasing the flowerbed.
But, alas, what I yearn for is naught but brittle,
I’ve a childlike definition of love, they’ve said.
How dare I rid my admiration? Preposterous!
Forbidden stares fill their lustful lids inclined,
Striking was his gaze—nay—tempestuous,
And a touch sweeter than all praise combined.