James Potter is like a poorly written metaphor. The phrasing's a bit clumsy, the word choice deafeningly simple, and perhaps there's an incorrect participle used once or twice. At first glance, you brush it off, roll your eyes and move on to the next sentence. For a while, you dislike that metaphor. It is possible that at times, you detest it. But one day later on, you'll be doing something mundane, like washing dishes or folding laundry, and suddenly that metaphor will come back to you. You'll remember all the negative things you thought about it, but at the same time, you wonder if maybe you judged it too quickly.
You'll stop what you're doing and reread the phrase. At first you'll notice the negatives, the ones you've been adamantly focused on all this time, but now you're not so sure that that's all there is to it. You'll read it again, and again, stumbling through the darkness with your hands outstretched, looking for something to hold on to. And you'll find it, too.
It will come to you, at first, through one word. A word you once thought was deafeningly simple is now simplistically poignant. And though you thought you always knew, it will be the first time that you really understand how much beauty there truly is in simplicity.
That word, that stunningly simple word, will begin to shape the entire phrase. Then you begin to not only overlook the grammatical errors, but attest to the character they give the piece. And what you once thought was clumsy suddenly becomes graceful in its own unique way. You can't understand how you could have overlooked such genius, and as much as you try, you can never quite seem to get that metaphor out of your head again.
James Potter is like a poorly written metaphor, and I'm giving him another chance.
Lily Evans is like a joke you don't understand the first time around. You laugh, of course, because you don't want anyone to know that what everyone else seemed to get right away you still find elusive. You play the part accordingly, chuckling enough to show that you found it funny but not so much as to draw attention to yourself. But as soon as everyone turns away, joke forgotten, your smile drops, because you don't like the fact that you don't get it; it bugs you.
You find yourself constantly thinking about the joke, analyzing it, observing; you can't get it off your mind. You try to see it from different angles, throwing away your preconceptions and starting fresh, thinking that maybe something was blocking the humor from you, that maybe you'll finally understand.
At some point, you'll think that you'd be better off putting the joke out of your mind, forgetting about it. In fact, you know you'd be better off. So you try. You honestly do, but your brain has its own agenda. Whenever you think you've finally got it beat, when you think you're able to put your guard down, something will remind you about that joke, and how you still don't get why you're so fascinated by it. And the process starts all over again.
When nothing works, you'll get frustrated. You'll get moody and sullen, because there's nothing worse than being betrayed by your own brain. You'll start to blame it on the joke, and you're aware that that's unfair but somehow you can't help it. You'll be stuck in this spiral that brings nothing but trouble and you'll wish that you could move past all this and just understand.
And one day, much to your astonishment, you will. It will seem so simple that you'll wonder how it took you so long to grasp, but at the same time you can't help but marvel in its complexity. The joke, the elusive, long-sought after quip, is finally standing before you, and you finally realize why it's stuck with you for so long.
Lily Evans is like a joke I didn't understand the first time around, but I know better now.