As tartan and plaid collide, I am a deer caught in the headlights of a pattern excursion, one where the stars and moon cannot guide me through and the road is rocky and the trees billowy.
Never have I thought that my hands would ever piece together a printed bomber jacket and a printed skirt together to make one look -- much less one that I would wear out on a certain afternoon occasion -- but when have my thoughts and beliefs ever prevailed?
Presently, I am sitting in front of a computer screen scrolling through posts taken barely a year ago and chuckling at the disheveled eclecticism I used to declare my style. As with the stylecentric thousands who have hit the publish button for the first time what seems like ages ago, I have utilized this online sanction, dubbed The Mayden, as a showcase and a journey of my personal style discovery.
Eleven months down the road and I think I may have stumbled on the X of this odyssey, a distinct stamp on my sartorial preference documented across posts that have made this journey slightly more concrete -- as concrete as pixels can be, anyway.
The pieces in this look have been chosen to assemble an outfit that embodies what I believe is my style: a swipe of bohemian on the strength of grunge, agents of counteraction that balance each other out with a touch from chic. Modern takes on vintages make appearances now and again, too, courtesy of my early closet-scavenging days.
I got a haircut.
If one were to obscure my upper body, the absence of ten inch worth of hair would easily be overlooked, but the snipping of scissors and severing of ends this time around was more symbolic than aesthetic -- though the parting with a look that has stuck around for six years was a relieving and long overdue one.
She is of fig tree limbs and feral heart, a wispy silhouette that breathes through yellowed eyes. She is a witness to the golden drops of sun the forest ceiling filters, billowy hands outstretched to savour the breaking of dawn.
But, with her head towards shards of light and her being among evergreens, she bathes not in warmth but in the woe of her aching heart. Maybe sleeping among thorned roses and fanged wolves had turned it into a thistle.
Monthly Merits is a monthly series where I recount and award the month's worthiest moments in merits.
If this February were personified, she would be the girl finding comfort in coffee, socks and the heartbreaking The Beatrice Letters amidst rips in tights and shorts -- and comfort she shall find, and in comfort she shall settle, because there is nothing coffee, socks and books cannot mend.
February started out stormy and I was shipwrecked, but the endless tides of good news and opportunities that crashed my way swept me back to shore. Here are this month's merits.