Written during an English class while trying to beat off anxiety over an oral report.
Hence the dubious quality. Quite possibly OOC. I apologize for that.
Blind
There he goes again, prattling on and on about this wonderous barricade of his.
And he wonders why I'm a cynic?
He is willingly sending his friends...my friends also, if I would be so bold to call them such, to death?
For that is what he'll find. Death waiting there, with a smile on her lips (oh yes, Death is a woman. I know this quite well. She is easy to flirt with). He knows this as well as I do.
Are you still to prideful to admit it, Alexandre Enjolras?
Look at us. Your friends, your brothers. Those you swore to your heart.
Listen to me. Such romantic nonsense. But isn't it true? Can't you see them before you?
Combeferre, deep in an animated conversation with Courfeyrac. The philosopher's eyes sparkle behind his spectacles, and I know that he is one step ahead of Courfeyrac, even though he doesn't show it. And said dandy has his arm around the slim waist of another of his numerous grisettes. He has taste, I'll give him that -- this one is as almost as shy as Jehan, and quite pretty.
Speaking of our Poet Laureate, there he is at the table next to the other two, aqua eyes alight with pride as Joly reads one of his poems aloud. Bossuet is smiling in his mellow way as the malade imaginaire animatedly reads the lines, and is stopped unexpectedly by a sneeze. Instantly, a look of panic crosses his face, and Jehan and Bossuet accidently make eye contact, and are having a losing battle with surpressed laughter. The next table over, Bahorel and Feuilly, who were also listening, struggle not to laugh. The fan-maker watches with an amused look, and Bahorel chuckles to himself. Courfeyrac's grisette risks a grin and her knight (or night, perhaps?) in shining armour grins back, tightening his hold around her and whispering something into her ear, making her giggle.
They are so alive, they bleed life. Even I must admit...they fully deserve this life.
You will take it away from them. You would willingly send them to their death at this barricade?
You're a heartless fool, Enjolras.
There you sit, beautiful in your transparent treachery. You make words of danger sound like pure gold belief and love. But it's only love for your country, your Patria. She will betray you, don't you understand?
She makes you blind. But any sort of love makes one blind, doesn't it?
I know that quite well.
Why do I come here, night after night, to watch you talk these men into meeting their own death and to deal with all your vitriolic remarks shot towards me?
Why?Love makes us blind. Love made me blind. Me! Of all people!
Within you is a light. It gives no warmth, nor life, but the light it gives is beyond all others. It reaches out to people's souls and calls to them by name, stirring them into wakefulness and utter oblivion to reality. I am no exception. It draws me to you.
Your beauty, your light, your passion.
I love you, Alexandre Enjolras.
And therefore, I too am blind.
[finis]
