Why I Love Harry Potter So Much

Since 1999 when first I read "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone", my life has been a magical ride.

At that time, I lived in a world where adults and other children constantly told me I was strange. I was beaten up, called names, and thought that life would always mean pain. (In "The Tales of Beadle the Bard, Dumbledore says "To hurt is as human as to breathe.)

Eventually, I learned that I had something special. I could sing songs, write poems, paint, learn and teach. I could create magic. This magic grew as I aged, and became more than something I practiced; it became my means of combating a world full of darkness.

Because of this magic, I was able to reach out, and make friends. These friends saved my life many a time, helped me through school, made me laugh, and gave me a reason to get up in the morning after dreams that made me fear opening my eyes. They brought me to levels as a human being that I didn't believe possible.

I've had authority distrust me. I've been told to be silent when I tried to stand up for the truth. It hasn't stopped me yet.

I've had to make choices between what is right and what is easy.

I know what it means to have someone you love, someone who has taught you everything, someone who shaped you into who you are, someone who had the entirety of your trust, suddenly cease to exist, and to be left with infinite questions, disbelief, emptiness, and a searing pain that seems to have a life of it's own.

I also know what it means to let the souls of the fallen live on within you and the love that you can give. To press on, and to dedicate your spirit to the ones who mean the most to you.

I've found a place that has become home to me, where there is always help for those who need it.

It is true that my life will never be as full of epic adventure as the life of Harry. However, as I delve again and again into my well-loved copies of his books, I gain a hope for when my story is over, a hope that people will look through it and see someone who was given enormous adversities, but who overcame them and created a bright point of light in the universe; someone who lived for her friends, and who experienced all the magical possibilities of her world. I want to be remembered, ultimately, as a girl who lived.

Okay. So I already failed and skipped a day. I suppose everyone will have to get used to being dissappointed in life. Consider this a lesson. Yep, that was my intent all along. ...

Anger.
It's so damn ugly
and so debilitating.
I'd rather be depressed,
and that's saying something
considering.


Wow. Sorry, guys. I think that's all I've got today. Welcome back, writer's block! (And by welcome back, I do mean that I plan on kicking you in the teeth tomorrow.)

Once again, this is word vomit. I'll probably change subjects between spaces, as my mind is jumpy today.

Your argument that the world isn't fair will never change my argument that it should be.
People like you who are resigned not to work for fairness are the reason "It is what it is".

My passions run way to hot right now.
Everything I do, I care about intensely during these heightened times.
They are interspersed in my life, but they come,
times in which I feel ready constantly for jubilation, heartbreak
anger, creation.
Anything but complacency.
The stakes in even the most mundane conversations skyrocket.
My blood sublimates.

Identity is strange.
Like a monologue from Hamlet.
What forces cause us to be who we are,
or not to be?

What causes someone to be afraid of a second date,
after the first one goes really well?
I feel like I knew once,
but now fear seems incomprehensible to me,
in the face of possibility.
There's a chance in going for it, that the relationship won't work out perfectly.
If you don't go for it, however, it's guaranteed.

Okay, yeah. Scatterbrained.

Mental Ex-Lax

So, I'm going to divulge to you now the real reason why I haven't been posting. It's not that I've been busy. I mean, I have been busy, but that's not the reason. I've written through extreme business before. My reason: Writer's Block, for which there is no laxative. I've still been writing my poem a day, but they've been, at best, five lines of crap apiece. SO here, today, I'm ending this. This post I'm just taking and doing. Another reveal: I have no idea what I will write. The thing that's about to come out of my typing fingers will be as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. Here goes something.

It's amazingly complete.
That feeling
when you let yourself want for something.
Hope is inevitable.
You do your best and you get yourself just a little taste of it.
A taste of that which you are certain will magnify your happiness.
When it peaks at piquing you and your whole body aligns 
and your body and mind connect in almost unsettling ways,
and then, it creeps in.
The deal breaker.
Fear. Either yours or someone else's.
It slithers in and opens a crack too hard to notice
at first,
and then, while your occupied mind ruminates on further possibilities,
that on which you speculate erodes from that tiny crack
and is washed down the river.
The completeness is when you turn around, see the debris,
hear the utter tabula rasa,
and you know that you and your dreaming consciousness
will wander through many more of these valleys,
and that happiness and it's providers on whom you can rely
will be with you always anyway.

Wow. Moral of the story is: just do it. For this week, at least, I am challenging myself, as of right now, to post something every day. We'll see if any of it equates to this one, or if it's all utter crap, at least we'll all have a laugh.