(no subject)
From the journal of Michael Corner
1 October 2001
After far too long I've finally decided to pick up this old thing and attempt to put a few words of wisdom in it. I'm not sure I'll succeed, but I'm going to try nevertheless. Therapeutic for the soul and all that rot.
Looking back at past entries I cannot help but marvel at the long, winding journey I took to get to this very place and how I managed to keep [most of] my sanity. Some of what I wrote toward the end now reads like the ravings of a complete loon. The vitriol literally flowed from my fingertips and onto the pages like water.
Was I really that bad? I fear I might have been, and that bothers me an awful lot. Why, after everything I've said, and done - including acts that I once would have never thought myself capable of committing - would they want to help? Me. Michael Corner. Rogue Ravenclaw and sometimes right bastard besmirching the innocence of young girls across most of Britain.
Well, now that I think about it, some weren't that innocent.
~ ~ ~
I dream more and remember them with much more clarity now. Many things I see and feel with a preciseness I've not felt in... too long. Cho teasingly says it's because of the recent walks we've taken through the local countryside. Crisp autumn air and sunshine is the best medicine for anyone, she claims.
I like to think it's because my magic is returning. Mostly it's coming back to me in dribs and drabs, but it's there regardless. I can feel it tingling and pulsing just underneath the surface of my skin.
~ ~ ~
I suppose I should stop giving Hermione the cold shoulder and actually talk to her about what happened.
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,)
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling.
Till o'er the river pois'd, the twain yet one, a moment's lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.
1 October 2001
After far too long I've finally decided to pick up this old thing and attempt to put a few words of wisdom in it. I'm not sure I'll succeed, but I'm going to try nevertheless. Therapeutic for the soul and all that rot.
Looking back at past entries I cannot help but marvel at the long, winding journey I took to get to this very place and how I managed to keep [most of] my sanity. Some of what I wrote toward the end now reads like the ravings of a complete loon. The vitriol literally flowed from my fingertips and onto the pages like water.
Was I really that bad? I fear I might have been, and that bothers me an awful lot. Why, after everything I've said, and done - including acts that I once would have never thought myself capable of committing - would they want to help? Me. Michael Corner. Rogue Ravenclaw and sometimes right bastard besmirching the innocence of young girls across most of Britain.
Well, now that I think about it, some weren't that innocent.
~ ~ ~
I dream more and remember them with much more clarity now. Many things I see and feel with a preciseness I've not felt in... too long. Cho teasingly says it's because of the recent walks we've taken through the local countryside. Crisp autumn air and sunshine is the best medicine for anyone, she claims.
I like to think it's because my magic is returning. Mostly it's coming back to me in dribs and drabs, but it's there regardless. I can feel it tingling and pulsing just underneath the surface of my skin.
~ ~ ~
I suppose I should stop giving Hermione the cold shoulder and actually talk to her about what happened.
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,)
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling.
Till o'er the river pois'd, the twain yet one, a moment's lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.