inteligrrl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
inteligrrl) wrote2002-09-19 10:18 pm
inteligrrl) wrote2002-09-19 10:18 pm
Look what I found...
I was going through my files and I stumbled upon a story I wrote last spring, but never got round to posting. After re-reading I decided it wasn't absolute crap, so I figured I'd put it up varrious places.
A Real Boy
By J. Lynn
When you wish upon a star...
I want him to be real.
He can be a happy, mature, young man one moment, and in the next instant he becomes the little boy he never was, but always has been.
It scares me sometimes. Seeing him change from a grown man who has seen his share of the fantastic to a child, delighting in the ordinarry. It’s not something I’ve ever seen before in anyone. Ocasionally I begin to think that normal people can concisely present their oppinions on wizard/muggle relationships, and be found marveling over the way a door hinge works ten minutes later.
Although, I rather think not.
It still amazes me that he is afraid of little things. Broom closets, fancy rooms, thunderstorms. No matter what’s passed between us that day he presses himself as closely to me as possible when the sky begins to rumble. It’s only then that I feel guilty for pressing him to become more used to barbs than comfort. It makes me wish it was possible to change my nature; to wrap him in cotton rather than steel wool.
When things get bad, really bad, he changes again. Into something else. Something other than either grown man or child.
And then he becomes... old. tired. defeated. dead. I have only seen it a few times, but it’s as if everything he ever seemed to be drops. shatters. And there’s this empty husk of a man standing there, and absolutely nothing matters to him. His eyes are empty, cold and dead; and you can’t help but shudder because nothing’s suposed to look like that. Even Voldemort was more alive. Empty as his hatread was at least he had something real and solid at his foundation to hold onto. This man has nothing, and he knows it.
And that’s when I am afraid.
I know that neither I, nor anyone else, will ever be able to reach that empty creature that lies inside him. Everything that we know of him, everything that he is to us, is simply some kind of twisted mask, concocted to give him dimension. To make him more than nothing.
I somehow know that this mask of who he is can be droped easier than it is assumed.
It’s so... sad. Sad that the most beautiful person I’ve ever known isn’t even real. Everything I think I share with him can disappear in the instant he decides to give it up.
And I want Harry to be real.
I want him to be a beautiful, wonderful, grown man who can turn into a joyful, frightened, little boy who can hide behind a mask that can do what needs to be done.
But I don’t think that can ever be.
I think, just as ‘The Boy Who Lived’ was created to fulfill a purpose, Harry was made to do it’s job as well. And even if it’s a job that lasts his lifetime, I don’t know that I’ll be satisfied. How can I live with the idea that the most amazing thing to ever happen to me doesn’t actually exist? That the closest I’ll ever get to touching the depth of him will never be close enough. It’s the knowledge that he is consuming me in a way that I can never match.
And if only he was real I might have a chance to consume him as well. If only it was fair.
But life’s not fair.
And as he snuggles as close as is humanly possible I look at the scared little boy by my side and wish he was real.
But it’s raining, and there are no stars to be seen.
fin.
A Real Boy
By J. Lynn
When you wish upon a star...
I want him to be real.
He can be a happy, mature, young man one moment, and in the next instant he becomes the little boy he never was, but always has been.
It scares me sometimes. Seeing him change from a grown man who has seen his share of the fantastic to a child, delighting in the ordinarry. It’s not something I’ve ever seen before in anyone. Ocasionally I begin to think that normal people can concisely present their oppinions on wizard/muggle relationships, and be found marveling over the way a door hinge works ten minutes later.
Although, I rather think not.
It still amazes me that he is afraid of little things. Broom closets, fancy rooms, thunderstorms. No matter what’s passed between us that day he presses himself as closely to me as possible when the sky begins to rumble. It’s only then that I feel guilty for pressing him to become more used to barbs than comfort. It makes me wish it was possible to change my nature; to wrap him in cotton rather than steel wool.
When things get bad, really bad, he changes again. Into something else. Something other than either grown man or child.
And then he becomes... old. tired. defeated. dead. I have only seen it a few times, but it’s as if everything he ever seemed to be drops. shatters. And there’s this empty husk of a man standing there, and absolutely nothing matters to him. His eyes are empty, cold and dead; and you can’t help but shudder because nothing’s suposed to look like that. Even Voldemort was more alive. Empty as his hatread was at least he had something real and solid at his foundation to hold onto. This man has nothing, and he knows it.
And that’s when I am afraid.
I know that neither I, nor anyone else, will ever be able to reach that empty creature that lies inside him. Everything that we know of him, everything that he is to us, is simply some kind of twisted mask, concocted to give him dimension. To make him more than nothing.
I somehow know that this mask of who he is can be droped easier than it is assumed.
It’s so... sad. Sad that the most beautiful person I’ve ever known isn’t even real. Everything I think I share with him can disappear in the instant he decides to give it up.
And I want Harry to be real.
I want him to be a beautiful, wonderful, grown man who can turn into a joyful, frightened, little boy who can hide behind a mask that can do what needs to be done.
But I don’t think that can ever be.
I think, just as ‘The Boy Who Lived’ was created to fulfill a purpose, Harry was made to do it’s job as well. And even if it’s a job that lasts his lifetime, I don’t know that I’ll be satisfied. How can I live with the idea that the most amazing thing to ever happen to me doesn’t actually exist? That the closest I’ll ever get to touching the depth of him will never be close enough. It’s the knowledge that he is consuming me in a way that I can never match.
And if only he was real I might have a chance to consume him as well. If only it was fair.
But life’s not fair.
And as he snuggles as close as is humanly possible I look at the scared little boy by my side and wish he was real.
But it’s raining, and there are no stars to be seen.
fin.