Today I spilled ink on my diary while writing this piece and it made this look even more beautiful. Sometimes it is okay to mess things up, it is okay to let the ink spill, let the tears fall and let laughter echo through the life of us because these are the things making it real, raw, and unique. Through the spillovers masterpieces take birth.
Letters and Diaries
Letters and Diaries are so precious. They are the most beautiful form of human emotions. Practically, they are just non living things with strings of words put together but they always connect to you in ways that make you feel life in exquisite forms. They are nothing but ink and paper lying on the table with some words that are just written on them and yet they are so full of life, stories, people, and a rollercoaster of emotions altogether. They are as alive and as dead as we may feel while reading them or writing them. It’s funny how letters and diaries are just like life and death at the same time.
I will come for you tonight in my diary while waiting for your letter.
To love is the most personal thing ever. You just identify one human and make him or her the subject of your affection. We human beings are born with a heart and in this real world of fake people and transient forevers, this heart of ours gets beaten up often and we become this cold distant humans whose hearts are locked up because we are too afraid of love and feeling vulnerable. That feeling when your soul is absolutely naked in front of someone you love is unsettling, it gives you a pittish feeling in the centre of your chest and your bosom feels ached to be hugged and held tight but that doesn’t happen and you continue to live like that feeling that void and carrying it with you wherever you go. You don’t know the beloved’s heart. You may know it and it may break your heart but you still choose to keep going on feeling strange and having that heart on your sleeve because for a moment Rumi’s words heal you and you believe in universe and destiny and Ted Mosby who taught you to never give up on someone you love even when it completely destroys you and there you are smiling and going on as if nothing has happened while your heart lays exposed like never before. I have got only one thing to say here-
just own it like you have always owned it. Afterall hearts were made to be broken. Keep showing off the sleeve.
Or maybe just fade off slowly while you bleed with your heart on the sleeve. But never lock the heart inside. Never.
Mary Shelley’s Diary
8th july 1822.
I killed him.
He didn’t die a natural death like he wanted but he died making love.
Ah! I fulfilled his last wish.
Even broken in body as he is, no one can feel the joy my spirit feels. The starry sky, the moonless night overwhelms me for my HUSBAND IS DEAD.
He, celebrated “love poet” was a Bloody Rapscallion.
And I, a vampire.
Sucking that life out of him while giving that hickey on the neck was such orgasmic pleasure. He couldn’t satisfy me while he was alive, but he did while dying.. how I wish he was dead a few minutes later.
I, wanted to stab him in his heart and rip all those four chambers apart. Ha! Such a cake walk it would have been.
I wanted to be the fishwife instead to my sea otter husband.
As the clock strikes 12, when midnight comes, it brings all those spirits in that graveyard alive,
I dug his grave, tearing his flesh apart gently (with love like crimson blood) and suck all the blood left in his body for no rum would quench this thirst.
Pages in PB Shelley’s Diary fill themselves with crimson ink.
9th july 1822
Mary, my fishwife.
Naked she comes to my holy grave with her breasts shining bright in moonless night.
Her soft hands holding a bewitched dagger in a night as dark as those wishes in her eyes.
Mary’s heart was a dark deap ocean of cryptic conundrums.
That cold steel sharp edged dagger ripping my flesh apart.
My body didn’t feel a thing for she thought I was dead. But I am not.
My spirit still hovering around.
Oh my flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and whose love poisoned me.
Comes to me naked with wild eyes.
She stabbed my heart exactly four times, cutting out each chamber delicately and placing them in jars.
I killed her first beloved.
And she took her revenge.
How did she know? My spirit still wonders.
I stay here on this earth until Mary unites with me in Death.
A hickey had power to put me to sleep,
I’d embrace her in death and her soul shall weep.