Unconditional Love

Having stated before that Love is to all entities meaningless, it is embarrassing to be affording myself a misquote.
Love, to me, is now all. Nothing to me has been so precious, welcoming, all encompassing and now, I realise, perfectly unconditional. It is with regret, then, that I recount my own story of the explored boundaries of Love.
Her name was Daisy. How peculiar, I thought, a girl named after a flower. But it suited her perfectly. She was enchantingly delicate, with light, short hair and stunning, fragile eyes; eyes so sad they could hold you in themselves, wrap you up and I dare say engulf your entirety.
Never have I been beautiful. Never would you look at me and see a man astonishingly haunted in his eyes or delightfully youthful, even as a lad I was not. That is to say, I seemed old when I was young, as Thought moulded my forehead into lines and cracks; Thought does not sit well with Beauty. 
I was young when I met her, at a party at Oxford. She was becoming to the scene, dull as it was with the withering thoughts of the decrepit staining the walls. I did not see her at once, a tall brunette with her first caught my attention, for which I am deeply regretful, for Daisy held my attention and I detest that I deprived myself another moment of knowing her charming eyes, her delicate face. She felt my gaze on her, I think, and turned to face me. Embarrassed some, I smiled and turned away. 
She came to find me in the garden. I’d spent the evening gladly with vague acquaintances, stealing an occasional glance at her. She smiled and asked to be seated with me. I obliged. 
It was a beautiful spot, that expanse of land in which we first kissed, all the more for her presence. The lake before us, she said, glittered with the moon like a Long Island heat haze. Being as I am Scottish with my only ventures being into the wilds of England and Wales, I had never seen heat haze. 
We spent 3 months blissfully in love. In my eyes, we were married, having somewhat consummated an agreement thus. It was a beautiful thing, she and I, together. Then came the war.
Some called it the Great War. I did not, because It stole from me something precious. Daisy. 
Of course, I went to fight. I did so with my friend Nicholas Hemsworth, a fellow Oxford man. War itself did not affect me particularly, it was only the letters from home I noticed. I wrote often to Daisy, out of love, of course, but also out of a need to escape the wretched trenches. I also wrote to my mother, which is how my pressing boundaries began.
Mother told me how Daisy had become awfully close with a man named Thomas, and Oh he is a foul man, dull and awful, but Daisy seems quite taken with him, as though she doesn’t even notice the smell. Her father seems quite sure that they’ll be married, that she’s forgotten all about you. But, I suppose you may find someone else, perhaps even a wee French girl? 
She broke my heart, my mother. I don’t suppose she realised. But I was shocked by my Daisy’s betrayal, and I became overwrought. I spent much of my time hoping to find a wee French girl, that she’d take my mind off Daisy.
It was a stupid thing to do, in retrospect. Being young, and feeling betrayed, I never told her of my doubts of her faithfulness, did not reveal my pain until I came home and it was too late.
I found a French girl, who was quite spectacularly dull. If ever an honest thought were to come into her head, I suspect it would shrivel up and die from loneliness. She positively pontificated the lies of her friends, the hatred she had of them, the scandals of the French. It was not becoming of her, but I was so alone I didn’t notice.
I took the French girl home and then to a party in Hampshire which Daisy attended. Her eyes grew bright, smiling and wide as she saw me across the room, then her gaze dropped to the woman on my arm. Her broken eyes flashed up at me, a reflection of the betrayal I’d felt when I first heard of Thomas. She ran from the room and I spent the rest of the night sour until the French girl, I forget her name, forgive me, finally left me with a promise that I was now truly alone.
So regretful is this story, because Thomas’s Love for Daisy was unrequited. She refused his proposal and waited for me, in unconditional want for me. I betrayed her.
Unconditional. That is what Love is. So fitting it is then, my Daisy’s Unconditional forgiveness. So fitting it is then, that our broken hearts can now beat together, attached by a confused, loving chord.

The End

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