Amore
Summary: He taught me to see. He taught me to open my eyes and never blink. He told me that the world is our canvas, and its blank face is tired of waiting. He taught me that nothing is perfect, and that's what makes it whole.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or anything else you may recognize from the books. That belongs to J.K. Rowling, and whoever else helped publish the books.
Is it possible to know why we want things we can't have? Once we see something out of our reach, something that would waste our time trying to get, something so unachievable it seems unreal, why do we want it? Why do we get that queasy feeling in our stomach, just thinking about how much we'd like to hold it, to touch it, to possess the knowledge that it is claimed? Is it… greed? Can a sin so powerful as that sneak into our daily lives so silently that we are blind to its cunning? Is it a human's natural instinct to crave the impossible? To yearn for a miracle? Or is it envy? Do we get so jealous of others' fortune that we suddenly become evil, unaware of our faults, caring only about what we cannot have? Or is it anger? Do we become angry over simple things, like not having what we want, not necessarily what we need?
People are stupid. They are brainwashed by their good fortune that they are ungrateful for the surplus of comfort they are surrounded by. Like the old saying goes, you can't miss something until it's gone, or something like that.
You see, I was deprived. I was deprived by the one thing better than food or water, the one thing stronger than a promise, the one thing deeper than a wounded soul. I was deprived, I was incomplete, I wasn't whole. I was living a false life, in false happiness, surrounded by the comfort of my false oasis. To any outsider I was a burst of sunshine, vacant of worries, unaware of sadness. But on the inside I was the exact opposite. I was a black whole. I was empty, I was colorless. I sucked up every good thing in my life and tore it to shreds, unhappy with its incompletion. Unhappy with the way it made me aware of the incompletion of my life. One thing was missing, and that one thing made me shiver. It made me tremble, it made me want to cry, or gag, or throw something. It was perhaps the simplest word out there, and yet its depths were so complicated and intricate, it was a mystery to all.
Love.
Even as I write it, it looks out of place. It does not belong on this tattered piece of parchment, written by my unsteady hand, its ink borne on this worn quill. It deserves to be in the heart of someone pure, who has her mind made up about life, who has a clear vision of her future, who knows the person she belong with for all eternity. And I am farthest from that person.
I am awkward. I am rude. I am loud, ungraceful, and a disgrace to my family. An outsider, a misfit, the runt. Am I the last person likely to require such a gift, or am I the one person who needs it most of all?
Sure, I've dabbled in the treacherous art of dating, but time after time I've come out empty-handed, and I was tired of such ill fortune. The boy I loved would never, ever, in a million years, notice me, or even notice my desperate attempts at attention. Were my stabs at conversation really this unnoticeable? Or how about my petty tries for contact? An arm brush here, a finger stroke there... was it all for nothing? Am I just not trying hard enough? Or are you just blind? Should I wait some more, or is our chance together hopeless?
I suppose this is where I'm suppose to say I've considered giving up. That the thought of just… leaving him alone has been haunting me, that I'm ready to become a normal person again. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it hasn't. He was the one thing unknown to me; he was the Forbidden Fruit, the other side of the paper. I was anxious, I suppose. He was the one thing I couldn't have, and I wanted him. I wanted to know what it was like to be with someone so pure and full of life. To be with someone who appreciated the world so much, who savored every breath, who conquered every fear, who created this perfect mask of a carefree boy, hiding the pain and sorrows that slowly ate at him, devouring him, day by day. Is it possible for one to endure so much torture? How did he do it? Was THAT what I wanted? Was that what I was looking for? The answer to concealment?
No. It was the way that he took off the mask that drew me to him. It was the way he washed off the paint that attracted me to his way of life. He did it overnight, really. Once day at the Burrow he came downstairs for breakfast, his pale face stained with the tears of his past, asking for someone to listen. He told everyone that he was tired of being in the dark. He was tired of living behind his mask; he was tired of perfecting his hero mold. He was ready to start a new life, to scratch out the old canvas and to create a new one. He was ready to fill that canvas with his own shining colors; he was ready to create his own patters, to draw his own picture. If anyone can overcome such sadness then the world really is perfect.
He taught me to see. He taught me to open my eyes and never blink. He told me that the world is our canvas, and its blank face is tired of waiting. He taught me that nothing is perfect, and that's what makes it whole. I realized that I, too, was tired of wearing this old, tattered mask. I was ready to take it off and show the world my own tearstained face, proudly displaying the strength I have gained.
Love is an intricate thing, with many twists and turns of its own, never ending up like you expected. Without this boy, without this man, without this human being I've come to love, would I have been the same person? I was once a black whole without any feelings, devoid of human contact, in fear of being hurt. Love has shown me the door on the other side, the light at the end of the tunnel, the bridge over the river. Love is the universe's way of saying that life should go on. Without love, we would be big, empty nothings. And who wants to wake up every morning looking at one of those things?
A/N: WOW, this did NOT end the way I expected. Wow. Uh, it was intentionally Ginny pining for Harry but if you use your imagination it could be anyone. Yeah, I know it did get a little sappy dappy at the end, but oh well. I needed to write this. You see, for awhile I was in a minor state of depression. A few nights ago it hit me really hard and I just felt really miserable and incomplete and just, unwanted, really. You can flame me all you want for this story, I don't give a damn. I needed to write this, to reassure myself, you know? This story is kind of two ideas torn up and melted together as one, and I'm not really sure if it's good. I'll take it down if you want, whatever. Just review.