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18 July 2007 @ 08:41 pm
Which is the more exquisite sensation: revenge, relief, or vindication?

Dear Santa,

You really ask some funny questions, you know that? I don't even know where to start with this one. I...hmm...I guess it depends on how you're feeling at that moment in time. I mean, if I were a better person, I guess I'd say that it was relief, because to have relief doesn't hurt anyone else. It relaxes you, calms you, gets rid of the unpleasant sensation that's been making your life so hard ... but like I said. As much as I'd like to think it, I'm not a good person, and sometimes you really just can't beat that feeling of being proven right or even just how it feels when justice has been served, when you've gotten even with someone. It's awful I know, but then you think back to certain times, like when my father got really angry at me for sneaking out at night because the back door was left open, but it turned out the hinge was broken. I mean, the feeling that you get coursing through you. It's almost like adrenaline the way there's this pounding in your veins and an energy builds behind you and ... god.

I'm so terrible, really. I'm supposed to be a nice guy. I'm supposed to be the friendly, happy, easy going one. But ... hah. It's so cliché to say that you wouldn't understand, but ... humans are complicated, Santa. We're layered like cake and onions and maybe it does make me a little bit less of a good person. Maybe it does knock me down a rung or two on the karmic scales, but relief, it doesn't quite do it for me. Not like the other two. Maybe one day. Maybe when I grow and mature. Maybe when the thrill of being proven right or getting revenge fades -- because there's no drug that lasts forever -- maybe then I'll find equisitness in relief. But for now, sign me up for a one way ticket to the dark side, because Darth Vader had a point.

Yours in vengeance,
Rupert.
 
 
18 July 2007 @ 03:15 am
Which is the more exquisite sensation: revenge, relief, or vindication?

Dear Jackass,

I immediately thought REVENGE when I read this question. Because, as most people know, I love revenge. I love plotting it, I love exacting it, the entire idea of revenge appeals to me. But it was that word, exquisite that made me hesitate. Revenge doesn't make me feel exquisite. It makes me feel as though I'm even with someone, but not exquisite. Revenge gives me a certain joy, but I wouldn't associate it with the word exquisite.

Then, I thought relief or vindication. Hahaha, I have never felt vindicated once in my life. Actually, that's a lie. Being a prefect did feel like vindication, but look at where that got me. So I really don't think that's exquisite sensation.

Which leaves me with relief. Unless, of course, I can say that none of these are exquisite sensations. No, of course not.

Relief can be rather exquisite, I suppose. When you have finally finished your exams, there's that relief of being DONE and FINISHED for the year. When you realize that you PASSED your exams, that's a relief. Someone you care about gets injured, hurt, attacked. When you find out they're going to be okay, it's an exquisite relief.

I think that my pick would definitely be relief. When someone tells you that it's going to be okay, or when you come to that realization on your own, be it in relationships, classwork or you know, random attacks on the school. There is something quite sweet about a certain type of relief, I would probably even call it exquisite.

There, are you happy? I answered it.

-Hannah
 
 
12 March 2007 @ 08:16 pm
If you could change one moment in your past, what would it be?

Dear Santa,

I think you already know the answer to this one before I even write it, because nothing has ever been more simple in my mind. I've never been able to answer a question more definitively in my life.

July 25, 2005. Pete and Paul and I were up in the tree house that's been on my property for as long as I can remember. Dad talks about playing in it as a child, so it's at least fifty years old. But that's not the point. Nor is the fact that three seventeen year olds were up there. It was a -- not a club house, that's far too twelve year old -- it was our escape. In the end, it was the place where the lies began.

Paul fell off the ladder when we were climbing down, and he bruised pretty badly. I tried to make Pete tell my why he was making such a fuss, but Paul was gone before I had a chance, in hospital that night and the next day I was on a plane to France. Nobody would answer my questions.

He died only a couple of months later.

If I could change anything, if I could fix anything, I'd have made them tell me. I would have demanded the truth and demanded and demanded and demanded until they told me. I would have. Yelled. Screamed. Threatened. Why didn't they tell me? WHY? Until I knew. So I could have had the time to fix it.

Yours in rememberance,
Rupert.
 
 
Chère Amie,

Seulement une moment? There are many moments that I'd love to change. I'll go with the one that is the clearest in my mind right now. Tuesday March 14th, 2006. I would have sent Isabel away. I would have told her that her stupid cat was fine and just to go back to her dorm.

Because it wasn't that long ago, I have no idea how much that one moment will change my entire life. All I do know is that it will change Isabel's, and that's my fault. I still think, well I don't know what to think.

I don't really want to talk about this anymore.

-Hannah
 
 
12 March 2007 @ 02:40 am
Dear You,

It's been awhile since I've written. A lot has been going on, and I just haven't had the time to really be able to sit down and write out coherent thoughts. I might not even finish this one.

So, fragile. When I think of something fragile, I usually think of something that's about to be broken. Like... an expensive piece of china. Or a poorly build house that can barely stand.

My father once told me that something so fragile was also very beautiful. I don't see fragility as beautiful. I see it as weak and pretty much about to die. But my dad has the tendency to see beauty in everything. I mean, how else would he have ended up with my mum? He has to be at least a little bit deluded.

Over the past 2 months or so, I've felt fragile a few times. It's not fun. I guess in some respect we're all fragile and waiting to be broken because there's always something that is strong enough to break you. With what happened to Isabel, I saw just how fragile life is. And with Derek's aunt and everything. Relationships are fragile and sanity is fragile.

I suppose if one would put oneself out there far enough as though they were fragile... it would actually turn around on them. Being brave and strong enough to live life exactly how you want to and being open and honest about how you feel isn't fragile. Even if you're putting yourself out there and waiting there for someone to step on you and smash you into a million pieces, you're still less fragile than those who stay hidden. You would be more sure of who you are and you would be more of a person, have more substance than those who build walls and keep themselves hidden.

So, if I followed that logic... then keeping people at a distance so that I don't get hurt just makes sure that I stay fragile rather than grow as a person and get stronger. Which means... that I am fragile after all.

Bugger.

-Hannah
 
 
 
12 March 2007 @ 07:20 pm
fragile

Dear Santa,

I guess first off you have to call me a letter h0r, or a bad pen pal or something, even if you are fictional, because I dumped you for someone who was real. Except I never write to him like I write to you, so that's why I guess it's kind of okay.

I don't even know if I want to answer this topic, Santa. It's the sort of topic that just ... it brings back memories I was much happier pretending didn't exist. Memories that hurt.

See the thing is, Santa, when you're the oldest son, when you're a Hufflepuff, when you're at a fucking magic school when the rest of your family doesn't even comprehend half the stuff that goes on in your life you have to be strong. Or put on a strong face.
It's great being here! It's fine! It's wonderful! Look at all the fun I'm having! Yeah, sure! I can't wait to go to Cambridge! Yep! Aren't these summer classes fun! I can manage, of course I can!
You need to tell them what they want to hear because they need to know that they're doing a good job. They need to know that they've done the right thing by you. And who wants to disappoint their parents?

It's why I don't tell them. It's why so many things go unsaid. I miss you. I miss home. I'm lost. I'm confused. I need help.

I don't know if I want to do this any more.


I am so broken, Santa. That is the truth of the matter. From the moment I was born it was like I was smashed up into a million little pieces and every moment from then has been spent trying to rebuild me. Sometimes I think I'm almost whole again. Sometimes I think I'm back at square one, trying to fit the pieces together and hoping like hell they'll stick.

Hoping that one day I'll be whole again.

Yours in pieces,
Rupert.
 
 
27 November 2006 @ 05:27 pm
Answered by silence

Dear Santa,

Silence is good and silence is bad. Sometimes it's all I crave and sometimes it drives me crazy. I'm a babbler, you might have noticed. Sometimes I talk on and on and on and sometimes people tell me to shut up. In those sort of situations, I guess people could think that I don't really value it, but I do. I know how important it is. Sometimes my babbling is so there won't be silence. It's easier to keep talking than it is to stop and realise the other person really doesn't want to speak to you. It's a way to cover up rejection or to convince yourself that you're not quite as hurt as you really are. Talking is safe. It's the option you choose when you're not quite ready to face up to things. Sometimes I think it's man's greatest fear. To be answered by silence. It's what scares me. Silence means there's no one there.

Yours quietly,
Rupert
 
 
Current Mood: soresore
Current Music: Summerbreeze -- Emiliana Torrini
 
 
25 November 2006 @ 10:09 pm
Dear FCB,

I find that I am answered by silence almost all of the time. Do you still love me? What should I do? Am I smart enough? What's wrong? Why did I do that? How do I fix this? The lack of an answer is frustrating. It keeps me up at night worrying about all the worst case scenarios. The answers are never there, hanging in the air and waiting to be snagged down. At least not the ones I'm looking for. There are plenty of answers everywhere. People love giving advice and talking about things they know nothing about. I screw up and half the school is letting me know what I should have done.

But the important questions are never answered. I hear no words spoken to me on the subjects of love, death or family. This is because I'm a coward. I keep those questions to myself and accept the silence as an answer. Maybe I'm not ready to hear those answers yet. Maybe I already have them within me, I just need to find them.

For now I'm enjoying the silence

-Hannah
 
 
25 November 2006 @ 09:35 pm
Dear FCB,

I like disguises, they're fun. I would love to be some sort of detective, always changing disguises and finding clues. Lying to get to the truth is so much fun. Or joke disguises.

I think in a way we all wear disguises. I mean, I know I do. But I'm okay with that, because as I've said before, it's safer. I guess I just hope one day that I feel as though I have to wear a disguise. That would be nice. Because if I stay in disguise for long enough, I start losing mysel.
 
 
26 November 2006 @ 12:27 pm
In disguise

Dear Santa,

It's almost ironic that you're asking me about disguise, a man who is most notable because of a big red suit that he wears one day of the year when he is giving out gifts, and is probably not much like that any other time of the year.

I don't know what to say about this, really. I'm mostly an open person. If I'm happy you know I'm happy and if there's something bothering me, I'm not the type of person that would try to pretend otherwise. I might stop talking to people, but that's not really a disguise.

I guess I do have to wear a disguise sometimes, most of my muggle friends don't know about Rupert the wizard, so I have to be Rupert the Muggle, but you know what? And I've never really told anyone this... It doesn't feel like a disguise, Rupert the Muggle. It feels normal. It feels like me. I mean, I'm rubbish at charms and transfig anyway, which are the proper magical subjects, so I'm not really a proper wizard, really and it's not like I do magic all that often. I really don't have a need for it.

I've had friends who've really hated that about me. They've thought it was resignation, that I just couldn't be bothered to fight my parents on it. It really annoys me, that. They think I'm happy doing what I don't want to. That I don't have the courage to stand up to my parents and to others. That means they think I'm weak and spineless.

I'll tell you something about me, Santa. I don't do things I am uncomfortable with. Plain and simple. If I really REALLY don't want to do it, then I won't. I'm stubborn like that.

The truth is, I like the muggle way of life. I like the muggle world. Sure, magic makes some things convenient and I am priveledged to have known it, but it's not the be all and end all of my world. I want to go to Cambridge and I want to be a barrister and I want to enjoy life the muggle way with electricty and pounds.

Sometimes it makes me mad that everyone seems to think that the wizarding way of life is superior. Not to this little black duck. Consider this a formal protest.

Yours sans magic,
Rupert
 
 
Current Mood: pissed offpissed off
Current Music: The Decemberists -- The Gymnast, High Above the Ground