I believe it to be true that happiness is a curse; Attachment ensues and pain is inevitable. Marseille makes me happy, but Marseille is a boy and for this, my love means nothing. Consider it: He and I live a long happy life. It goes without saying, one of us dies, right? One of us dies. Well, now neither of us can be happy. He is dead and does not feel; I am dead inside and refuse to feel. Nonetheless, Marseille makes me happy.
I do wonder though, if perhaps the world would be kinder if I chose to let the girl from fifth year make me happy. I chose Marseille. This is fine though; I am a contortionist to the cruel masses, and will continue to bend to their expectations. I think maybe, if I write to Marseille, I can make him happy too, should no nosey postman read it and be disgusted by my words. I write to him across the great blue brine:
My dear Marseille,
I hope your time in France is well. I hope that you're being prudent concerning your studies; I do ask if it must be abroad, though. I yearn to see you again, the people here are not hospitable in the slightest. Not even the pews of Saint Patrick's Cathedral could be as welcoming as your arms.
Signed with love.
I write and I pray. Soon morning comes.
My father and I are lifted from our beds to the smell of breakfast downstairs. I know it isn't Marseille's cooking, but the half-scrambled eggs, baked beans, and bacon my mother so wholesomely prepared will suffice. She loves me, but she does not make me happy in the way that he does; She loves me so that her raising me seems less arbitrary. What sane person would waste so many long years of their life on a child they didn't love?
My mother would.
I wouldn't come to realize this until I was older, but my mother despised me; In every detail of her care she hated me. It was subtle at first. As time passed and my parents' love for each other dwindled, though, my mother's disdain for me became apparent. I had begun to remind her too much of my father. She must've despised the precious blue eyes he'd given me; Marseille loved them. Marseille is the most content place in the world since the times of Eden; And what a cunning serpent he was to find his way into my life so perfectly. He'd love me forever in a way my mother never could, and praise me for sin. "You're trying your hardest." His words fill my heart with euphoria, each soft whisper another renaissance to my self-adoration, a new ballad for my ears to echo through my head.
I should stop this obsession. Marseille is compulsive and he has no concern for the damage he does. But oh, how I do love him and his horrible way of loving me. This isn't healthy - although most of my own choices aren't - but I tolerate it. My self-esteem is a fair price for the love that follows his berating. "Please, my dearest, forgive me." I shouldn't. "You know well enough I never meant it." Perhaps he didn't. "Do you want to sulk all day? Do you want me to feel terrible?" This must be my fault.
"Do you hate me, love?" I could never, and now I feel horrible for inflicting such pain on the love of my life.
"It will all be okay, I forgive you." Suddenly I am redeemed and our love is rejuvenated. I am insane to be so heartless to my Marseille - to cause him to hate me.
I could never give up this obsession; I am an addict, and I do not need rehabilitation. I am a sinner, and I do not need a savior. Marseille is this and more.
But I do hate him on some occasions, especially when he ultimately blames circumstance. Why he lets the outside influence our love is beyond me. Still, he is forgiven. God teaches us to forgive, as to not let our bitter piques spoil our lives with sin. Sin is prominent in my life. I am young, and this is expected, but I still should repent. Marseille is without sin.
I wonder about the practicality of letting the Bible lead us through darkness, though. Mother says God will bring us to the light, but I find myself trusting her less each day, even when she tells me she loves me. One day, I hope to receive my first letter from Marseille.
