Drained.

Exhausted.

Morose.

Story of Marcelle's life, really. He hardly gets any emotional highs, and he's usually more immersed in his lows. Sort of reminds him, really, about his own report in Philosophy. If there are more things wrong in this world than there are things right, then how could an infinitely right God ever exist?

Ah, but then, that's why the human being has free will. That in itself is a higher good than having a God control our wills.

But God knows what we are going to will (Or, what we will will.). Thus, when He gets to the point He foreknows something, we are, by necessity, going to act accordingly. Where is the freedom in that?

Ah, but you are still free. You have made your choices long before you got to this point. What you need to do is to understand why you made that choice.

So Marcelle, ask yourself: WHY did you get yourself into this?

You didn't get yourself anywhere by trying to get this off your chest, because face it, Marcelle: You're back at square one. You have no idea how much pain you've caused to people around you, and the only one worthy of blame is you. And in the end, what happens? You realize that you let go of something you called correctly, and not something you gave a misnomer to. How could you be so foolish?

And now, everything else is strained. People who once saw you as their bright ray of sunshine for the day now hold you in contempt and get away from you as soon as they begin to smell the stench of malevolence emanating from your very core. A lousy friend. A pathetic excuse for a human being. That's what you are, jabroni. Marcelle, you are a disgrace to the gargoyle.

Who do you turn to now? She's gone. So is she, so it seems. There're only two people who can still see you through. One loves you. That's why she's hurt. The other is a world apart in mind and heart. That's why nothing can be said.

And so you have to turn back to yourself. You are your only refuge, for you do not wish to hurt anyone else, Marcelle. But you know what your company brings: pain. Guilt. Regret. And with only yourself as your sanctuary, that is what you are doomed to feel.

Drained.

Exhausted.

Morose.

Story of Marcelle's life, really.