Disclaimer: You know the tune so sing along.
*J.K. Rowling owns everything, tra la la la la - la la la la* - Sob - it always brings a tear to my eye. Oh well, I still have my toenail clippers, and no one can take them away from me.
WARNING: I recommend skipping smell. This didn't get it's rating for bad words.
* * * * * *
Memory's a strange thing. It's twelve years since I walked outside in the clean air, I'll never do it again but I can remember so clearly. I spend most of my time remembering. Like everything else it takes practice to be good. I have plenty of time. I am the master. There are two types of memory, one remembers facts, were and when you were, what you were doing and why, the other memory remembers the sounds and smells, the colours and shapes, the touches and tastes of life, every detail of a moment, even when you can't remember where or when you were, or what you were doing or why. It's the second memory I work on. I do it step by step, one sense after the other. I start with the easiest, sight:
I stand in the middle of my cell and close my eyes against the unchanging darkness, I want to see beautiful shapes and dazzling colours. Something different than the far too familiar dark shapes crawling around behind their bars or stalking the corridors.
Sound is a little harder:
I lie with my arms over my head and try and bloke out the screams so that I can hear a different tune. It's only background noise I strain to here, but it's a lively rhythm, the constant hum of the living.
Touch I still try to feel for real:
I pull myself up by the bars of my window and hope I will feel the air outside, but it's cringes away from the forever still, stale air in my cell. I want sunshine, to feel the warmth of it and make sure it's still there. The same sun that was with me in a better life, but after, even the sun abandoned me. I want rain, snow, hail and sleet to feel the clean coldness. I want wind to blow around and make everything fresh. I want them all and I want them to always change.
The last sense is smell. It's said that smell is the strongest sense that provokes memories, so I guess it's only fair that it's also the memory hardest to remember. It took along time before I could block out the vivid stanch of human shit and stale vomit. The cells are never cleaned, not until the limp occupant, is dragged from it by the dementors, to be buried in an unmarked grave. They're not always dead.
I am the master of memory. I can shut my eyes and be walking down a road or though a street, busy hearing the sound of my own feet and being free, just for as second before the feeling is sucked out of me, but I get a moment to feel freedom, even if not happiness. That is the one of the few things I can't remember, being happy. I can remember not being able to stay still, having to run around and crow, and smiling without knowing it or controlling it and not caring for the lack of control over my own body, but it's always with the first memory, just facts, like an outsider looking in. I can't remember how it felt.
I later taught myself another escape, something far better than somewhere. Someone. I crave company badly. I've never been a loner. I can't see how someone could stand it. I need company. I've tried talking to the other inmates and even the dementors without much success. The dementors ignored me, which is to be expected. I'm thrilled if an inmate looks at me net alone talks to me, most of them sit still and silent, except when they scream. I have had a few conversations. Prisoners die and the next come in, sane for now. Some will talk to me if they're close enough, some are too scared or distorted. Over the years I can learn a few things about the outside world from our new guests, sometime things about Harry, most of them bad. I know he's with Lily's sister, the one who disowned her because she was a witch, even after their mother's death. I know there are still whole groups of people after Harry, mostly crazy but some still powerful and intelligent. Thank the stars and everything under them he's at Hogworts under Dumbledore's protection
Years ago, I could never of imagined I would crave the company of my enemies, and the man who throw me in here, when he comes to inspect the prison once a year. When I first saw Fudge walking down the block, my first thought they had busted him, this was quickly followed by the thought that I had finally gone mad. But I take any and all company I can get, in any form, but the company I want most I must take invented.
It is my second and best form of escape, instead of places I remember people, but in a cruel twist, the one thing I can't remember, is people, not in the second memory. It's James I remember most, and always flooded with guilt that I am the reason that he has to be remembered at all. I can feel James strongly sometimes, he always stand behind me a little to the left, just by my elbow. At first I would reach out or turn, I would be so sure to see him, but I soon stopped, not even the coldness of a ghost was there, of course I don't deserve it. I do still talk to him sometimes, in only a whisper, I even wait for him to answer me, I don't know why, he never answers and it breaks my heart. I'm the master of remembering, but I can't even remember his face.
* * * * * *
Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.
This is just a small sub-section going into the characteristics of the alter egos of the fab four. I base my interpretation of them largely on this.
* * *
The dog. Loving and loyal, a dog can pull off a lot of complicated tricks with it's handler, but without intrusion feels lost. They crave attention and will try to get it anywhere but prefers that of it's owner and can get very depressed left alone. They are very protective and possessive of their owner and are easily threaten by someone new butting in.
* * *
I know, blub-blub-blub, but I can hardly write a cheery character development for our local stray, can I? I am planning "Apple pie and ice-cream" though. Which could be a little happier, I hope. Guessed who his owner was?
Edge.
*J.K. Rowling owns everything, tra la la la la - la la la la* - Sob - it always brings a tear to my eye. Oh well, I still have my toenail clippers, and no one can take them away from me.
WARNING: I recommend skipping smell. This didn't get it's rating for bad words.
* * * * * *
Memory's a strange thing. It's twelve years since I walked outside in the clean air, I'll never do it again but I can remember so clearly. I spend most of my time remembering. Like everything else it takes practice to be good. I have plenty of time. I am the master. There are two types of memory, one remembers facts, were and when you were, what you were doing and why, the other memory remembers the sounds and smells, the colours and shapes, the touches and tastes of life, every detail of a moment, even when you can't remember where or when you were, or what you were doing or why. It's the second memory I work on. I do it step by step, one sense after the other. I start with the easiest, sight:
I stand in the middle of my cell and close my eyes against the unchanging darkness, I want to see beautiful shapes and dazzling colours. Something different than the far too familiar dark shapes crawling around behind their bars or stalking the corridors.
Sound is a little harder:
I lie with my arms over my head and try and bloke out the screams so that I can hear a different tune. It's only background noise I strain to here, but it's a lively rhythm, the constant hum of the living.
Touch I still try to feel for real:
I pull myself up by the bars of my window and hope I will feel the air outside, but it's cringes away from the forever still, stale air in my cell. I want sunshine, to feel the warmth of it and make sure it's still there. The same sun that was with me in a better life, but after, even the sun abandoned me. I want rain, snow, hail and sleet to feel the clean coldness. I want wind to blow around and make everything fresh. I want them all and I want them to always change.
The last sense is smell. It's said that smell is the strongest sense that provokes memories, so I guess it's only fair that it's also the memory hardest to remember. It took along time before I could block out the vivid stanch of human shit and stale vomit. The cells are never cleaned, not until the limp occupant, is dragged from it by the dementors, to be buried in an unmarked grave. They're not always dead.
I am the master of memory. I can shut my eyes and be walking down a road or though a street, busy hearing the sound of my own feet and being free, just for as second before the feeling is sucked out of me, but I get a moment to feel freedom, even if not happiness. That is the one of the few things I can't remember, being happy. I can remember not being able to stay still, having to run around and crow, and smiling without knowing it or controlling it and not caring for the lack of control over my own body, but it's always with the first memory, just facts, like an outsider looking in. I can't remember how it felt.
I later taught myself another escape, something far better than somewhere. Someone. I crave company badly. I've never been a loner. I can't see how someone could stand it. I need company. I've tried talking to the other inmates and even the dementors without much success. The dementors ignored me, which is to be expected. I'm thrilled if an inmate looks at me net alone talks to me, most of them sit still and silent, except when they scream. I have had a few conversations. Prisoners die and the next come in, sane for now. Some will talk to me if they're close enough, some are too scared or distorted. Over the years I can learn a few things about the outside world from our new guests, sometime things about Harry, most of them bad. I know he's with Lily's sister, the one who disowned her because she was a witch, even after their mother's death. I know there are still whole groups of people after Harry, mostly crazy but some still powerful and intelligent. Thank the stars and everything under them he's at Hogworts under Dumbledore's protection
Years ago, I could never of imagined I would crave the company of my enemies, and the man who throw me in here, when he comes to inspect the prison once a year. When I first saw Fudge walking down the block, my first thought they had busted him, this was quickly followed by the thought that I had finally gone mad. But I take any and all company I can get, in any form, but the company I want most I must take invented.
It is my second and best form of escape, instead of places I remember people, but in a cruel twist, the one thing I can't remember, is people, not in the second memory. It's James I remember most, and always flooded with guilt that I am the reason that he has to be remembered at all. I can feel James strongly sometimes, he always stand behind me a little to the left, just by my elbow. At first I would reach out or turn, I would be so sure to see him, but I soon stopped, not even the coldness of a ghost was there, of course I don't deserve it. I do still talk to him sometimes, in only a whisper, I even wait for him to answer me, I don't know why, he never answers and it breaks my heart. I'm the master of remembering, but I can't even remember his face.
* * * * * *
Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.
This is just a small sub-section going into the characteristics of the alter egos of the fab four. I base my interpretation of them largely on this.
* * *
The dog. Loving and loyal, a dog can pull off a lot of complicated tricks with it's handler, but without intrusion feels lost. They crave attention and will try to get it anywhere but prefers that of it's owner and can get very depressed left alone. They are very protective and possessive of their owner and are easily threaten by someone new butting in.
* * *
I know, blub-blub-blub, but I can hardly write a cheery character development for our local stray, can I? I am planning "Apple pie and ice-cream" though. Which could be a little happier, I hope. Guessed who his owner was?
Edge.