The Diary of Frida Kahlo

" I THINK IT’S GREAT FOR TWO PEOPLE TO BE TOGETHER. THAT IS A GOOD NUMBER. I THINK, THAT TO KEEP IT ALIVE THOUGH, YOU CAN’T SPEND EVERY DAY TOGETHER. IT WEARS OUT THE MAGIC, LOVE MEANS NOTHING TO ME IF IT’S NOT FORTIFIED WITH FIERCE, PAINFUL LONGING, BRIEF EXPLOSIVE INSTANCES OF FURIOUS PASSION AND INTIMACY AND THEN A SAD PARTING FOR A TIME. IN THAT WAY, YOU CAN GIVE YOUR LIFE TO IT AND STILL HAVE A LIFE OF YOUR OWN. I THINK SOME COUPLES SPEND TOO MUCH TIME TOGETHER. THEY FLATTEN OUT THE POTENTIAL FOR EXPERIENCE BY CONSTANT CLOSENESS. PASSION BUILDS OVER TIME LIKE STEAM. LET IT RAGE UNTIL IT’S EXHAUSTED AND THEN LEAVE IT ALONE TO LET IT BUILD UP AGAIN. WHY CAN’T LOVE BE INSANE AND DISTORTED? HOW CAN IT BE VITAL IF IT HAS THE SAME THRESHOLD AS NORMAL DAY-TO-DAY EXPERIENCE? WHY CAN’T YOU WRITE BURNING LETTERS AND LET YOUR NOCTURNAL SELF SMOLDER WITH DESIRE FOR ONE WHO IS NOT THERE? WHY NOT LET THE DAYS BEFORE YOU SEE HER BE EXCRUCIATING AND FERMENT IN YOUR MIND SO ON THE DAY YOU GO TO THE AIRPORT TO PICK HER UP, YOU’RE NEARLY SICK WITH ANTICIPATION? AND THEN WHEN DESIRE SHOWS THE FIRST SIGN OF CONTENTMENT, THROW IT BACK IN ITS CAGE AND LET IT SLOWLY BUILD ITSELF BACK INTO A STATE OF STARVED FURY. THEN WHEN YOU ARE TOGETHER, IT ALL MATTERS. SO THAT WHEN YOU LOOK INTO HER EYES, YOU LOSE YOUR BALANCE, SO THAT WHEN SHE TOUCHES YOU, IT FEELS LIKE YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN TOUCHED BEFORE. WHEN SHE SAYS YOUR NAME, YOU THINK IT WAS SHE WHO NAMED YOU. WHEN SHE HAS GONE, YOU BURY YOUR FACE IN THE PILLOW TO SMELL HER HAIR AND YOU LIE AWAKE AT NIGHT REMEMBERING YOUR FACE IN HER NECK, HER BREATHING AND THE AMAZING SMELL OF HER SKIN. YOUR EYES GO WET BECAUSE YOU WANT HER SO BAD AND MISS HER SO MUCH. NOW THAT IS WORTH THE MILES AND THE TIME. THAT MATCHES THE INFERNO OF LIFE. OTHERWISE YOU POISON EACH OTHER WITH YOUR PRESENCE DAY AFTER DAY AS YOU DRAG EACH OTHER THROUGH THE INEVITABLE MUNDANE ASPECTS OF YOUR LIVES. THAT IS THE SLOW DEATH THAT I SEE SLAPPED ON FACES EVERYWHERE I GO. IT’S PART OF THE WORLD’S SADNESS THAT’S MORE EMPTY THAN COLD, POORLY LIT ROOMS IN CITIES OF THE AMERICAN NIGHT. "

" WHAT IF SHE WAS MEANT TO BE, OR COULD HAVE BEEN, SOMEONE IMPORTANT IN MY LIFE? I THINK THAT’S WHAT SCARES ME: THE RANDOMNESS OF EVERYTHING. THAT THE PEOPLE WHO COULD BE IMPORTANT TO YOU MIGHT JUST PASS YOU BY. OR YOU PASS THEM BY. "

" EVERYTHING FALLS APART AT THE EXACT SAME TIME

THAT IT ALL COMES TOGETHER PERFECTLY FOR THE NEXT STEP "

" EVERYTHING WAS SURROUNDED BY THE GREEN MIRACLE OF THE LANDSCAPE OF YOUR BODY. UPON YOUR FORM, THE LASHES OF THE FLOWERS RESPONDED TO MY TOUCH, THE MURMUR OF STREAMS. THERE WAS ALL MANNER OF FRUITS IN THE JUICE OF YOUR LIPS, THE BLOOD OF THE POMEGRANATE, THE HORIZON OF THE MAMMEE AND THE PURIFIED PINEAPPLE. I PRESSED YOU AGAINST MY BREAST AND THE PRODIGY OF YOUR FORM PENETRATED ALL MY BLOOD THROUGH THE TIPS OF MY FINGERS. SMELL OF OAK ESSENCE, MEMORIES OF WALNUT, GREEN BREATH OF ASH TREE. HORIZON AND LANDSCAPES = I TRACED THEM WITH A KISS. OBLIVION OF WORDS WILL FORM THE EXACT LANGUAGE UNDERSTANDING THE GLANCES OF OUR CLOSED EYES. = YOU ARE HERE, INTANGIBLE AND YOU ARE ALL THE UNIVERSE WHICH I SHAPE INTO THE SPACE OF MY ROOM… FROM YOU TO MY HANDS, I CARESS YOUR ENTIRE BODY, AND I AM WITH YOU FOR A MINUTE AND I AM WITH MYSELF FOR A MOMENT… THE GREEN MIRACLE OF THE LANDSCAPE OF MY BODY BECOMES IN YOU THE WHOLE OF NATURE. I FLY THROUGH IT TO CARESS THE ROUNDED HILLS WITH MY FINGERTIPS, MY HANDS SINK INTO THE SHADOWY VALLEYS IN AN URGE TO POSSESS AND I’M ENVELOPED IN THE EMBRACE OF GENTLE BRANCHES, GREEN AND COOL. I PENETRATE THE SEX OF THE WHOLE EARTH, HER HEAT CHARS ME AND MY ENTIRE BODY IS RUBBED BY THE FRESHNESS OF THE TENDER LEAVES. THEIR DEW IS THE SWEAT OF AN EVER-NEW LOVER. IT’S NOT LOVE, OR TENDERNESS, OR AFFECTION, IT’S LIFE ITSELF, MY LIFE, THAT I FOUND WHEN I SAW IT IN YOUR HANDS, IN YOUR MOUTH AND IN YOUR BREASTS. I HAVE THE TASTE OF ALMONDS FROM YOUR LIPS IN MY MOUTH. OUR WORLDS HAVE NEVER GONE OUTSIDE. ONLY ONE MOUNTAIN CAN KNOW THE CORE OF ANOTHER MOUNTAIN. "

by Frida Kahlo, The Diary of Frida Kahlo