Disclaimer: I do not own Merchant of Venice.
My dearest diary,
Each passing day is getting more and more difficult. Seeing the love of my life with another has taken its sad toll upon myself. I am not sure how long I can carry on with this disgraceful charade. I especially know not why I am bothering to do so when it all seems so pointless.
My diary, it is dreadful being in love with your dearest friend, which I have said many times enough. Poor Bassanio who takes my heart and knows it not – he would never see it. The man is too naïve. I have learned how to wear a mask that is not obvious; subtlety always looked good on me. But then again, naïveté always has looked good on Bassanio. This is my downfall.
It is but this that makes me wonder if my feelings have any chance of being returned. If this is so, then subtlety be not the technique I need here, but bluntness. The polar opposite of subtlety is making it obvious to my love just how much he means to me, despite the possible consequences. I must conquer all fear if I truly wish to make my feelings a reality.
After much thought I have not recorded here (for that thought was recorded only in my heart – there was no need for the written word in the case of emotions I knew I was not to forget for all of eternity), I have decided to make my feelings clear. At least, as clear as I can make them while in the company of so many others. I suppose I can never take the mask of subtlety off completely. It just fits me so well.
Subtlety, yes. It confuses others and makes them wonder and worry. When subtlety and love come together, however, it's but a game of cat-and-mouse. Too bad Bassanio is too naïve to see the subtlety in me and our conversations. Or perhaps he is just that dense, but I wish it not. Nor do I believe that – I know him well enough to know how dense he is not.
Though subtlety may look good on me and naïveté may look good on him, it is obviously not completely fitting any longer. Because of this, I can not just let him go. Oh, he may be in happy Belmont now with fair Portia. And I wish it was so, for the sake of his happiness. I can only hope fair Portia knows who she has, whose loyalty she harbors. Though I wish to say it is not fair, I know otherwise. And I am perfectly happy as long as Bassanio fulfills his dreams, whether or not they include me. I truly only wish for his happiness. But in this, I do not see any reason as to why I must ignore my own completely.
But I digress. My mind seems to jump around whenever I consider Bassanio – it follows my heart in that regard. I suppose it is acceptable to digress in my own diaries…I have done so enough to sustain me forever. Ha, whoever reads this shall give up on doing so in less than one heartbeat. Not as such is my love for Bassanio, which, by the love of my heart, I swear will not fade. Can not. For if my love for him dies, my entire being – my entire existence – dies with it.
Oh, diary. I am almost in tears now, writing the poison words I write every time I confide in thee. Why must Bassanio have taken over so much of myself? My entire being is hung on such a delicate thread. Good Lord. The unlucky soul to come across these diaries shall think I belong in an institution of some sort.
But I shall smile and lend money – basically paying him to break my heart. Oh, woe is me. Why must I be so generous to the man I love? A fool's question, I suppose now. A fool's question with a fool's answer – an obvious one (which is perhaps why it seems so foolish to me – the mask of obviousness never did fit well on me). It is because he means the world to me and I can not just deny him his dreams because of my own. I am digging my own pit of loneliness. I ask myself the same questions every time I confide in thee, and neither you nor I have yet an answer.
Perhaps I shall simply make my own answer. No, not perhaps – I shall indeed do so, and have already planned out my means of carrying out this long-awaited deed. Tomorrow, I am off to court. I have not paid back the money I borrowed from the Jew Shylock and lent to Bassanio. I sent my love a letter. I wished – most likely my last wish, considering how this trial is likely going to end – to see him in the courtroom…one last time, before my likely death.
And tomorrow, dear diary…I will tell him I love him. Somehow. I care not that he is married to fair Portia, though I respect her and wish but wonderful things for the happy couple. But if I never see Bassanio again, I must let all my feelings out. Then perhaps I may live in peace, knowing I shall live without regrets – I will not have to wonder what could have been. I will most likely die alone – I have come to accept this. For I have no chance with a married man and that knowledge shall rest within me quietly if it does not rest with regrets. Wish me all luck tomorrow, if you suddenly become sentient, for I will need much.
Signed,
Antonio
A/N: Reviews are love. And no, this isn't in iambic pentameter. Sorry if that offends anyone.