Her Diary,

I am not on this ground for sure, I am up in the black sheet somewhere. I fell for him days after I saw him. My conscience tells me that he is a wrong person to love and I remind myself that love is always blind. It started just from a crush and I thought I will be over it soon. I was wrong! It hurts when people show me his demons and rebuke me for my choice.

The more his negatives come at the front, the more I try to paint his photograph.

It hurts me when he calls himself ugly. He is hard, firm and rude too. Sometimes he is so gentle that I doubt the time and I have this strong urge to hold his hands and gather all his pieces whenever he faces a break down.

His rude replies and often half left conversations made me stay back. I don’t know where this all would go, but I have this desire to have long deep conversations with him at night. Conversations that go nowhere, that leads us to nowhere but still they show us everything in little fragments of logic. He replies me and I am thankful that he is always kind to me. This love is increasingly growing. I am finding excuses to justify his immoralities. He seems like an isolated soul wandering in dark shadows. For me he is the most musical symphony God ever created, he is a piece of art that has the perfect brush strokes. He is painted black and white. While people try to instill colors in him, I only cherish his clarity. I am very fond of black color and when the white collaborates, he becomes a master piece for me. Wait, what I am doing? I am again finding justifications for him.

I need to accept the fact that I can’t buy every piece of art neither can I own the whole gallery… Yes, He is a gallery of mystic strokes for me.

Love from a *purple soul.


His Diary,

I am not high today, the fact is I am never high. I know what stories I leave behind but Do I care?- No, I don’t. People say she likes me and this doesn’t intrigues me. It’s just lust and not love, she will soon be over me. I’ll even fade out from her memory as I always do ever since I entered this world. She doesn’t need to justify my acts. I am ugly and worthless.

I have a thousand fragments of my soul, delicately tied together. No one can even gather me. I am the faulty photograph that everyone crushes down to bits.

Yes, sometimes I do become weak and people think I am calm and gentle but it’s just that my inner demons are having a holiday. I need no one to hold me, I am good on my own. I don’t want her to hold my hand because I know the sight of my scars will hurt her even more.

I am rude at times with people because I hate unwanted sympathy and overrated love. I respect her feelings and mustering up every inch of goodness that’s left in me… I try to reply her. There’s not much of kindness left in me so I don’t let my ruthless soul into long gossips. I cling to isolation as my solace and my pleasure is only found in my roots. I wonder in dark streets because they portray the most honest tales. I am a worthless piece of creation, who needs the glamour of luxury to add in me…to look a little acceptable. I am the first draft painting that never caught anybody’s eye. I belong to the dark in the storeroom.

I may be plain on the surface but I hold maroon demons inside me. No color stays on me, they all fade away.

I don’t want to hurt her, there is a human lost in the corners of my body too that screams out to her. It tells her not to spend any of her worth on trying to get me. How can you expect shelter and protection from a broken and rusty house? And how anyone can except love and warmth from a porous heart? I am not even close to mysticism. No need to spend for the one who is on Satan’s side.

Care from a *blue soul.


Partly fiction and partly based on real life.

Guys do share if you like it and your acknowledgement and criticism, both are  highly welcome. Cheers.