when I asked my grandfather what he would do differently
if he could go back and be 25 again
he said he would go out dancing,
dancing every night.
when I asked myself what I thought I’d say
when my grand daughter asked me the same question
I realized I never thought I’d live to be old;
my reflection once told me that writers die young
because they tell the truths of the world
and the world prefers her secrets kept.
evidently we both prefer to kill the messenger.
writers spend their time drinking coffee black
and using honey to smother their lovers in the beauty of illusion.
and like he said, he’d much rather twirl and sweat and appreciate
than to be like us,
the writers who spend too much time
enjoying disaster much more than organization.
than to be like us,
the writers who spend too much time living life on paper
rather than off.
he’s at the edge of the paper,
no longer limited by space but time
and I’m writing.
I’m here just beginning to write
with pen and the permanence,
unable to go back without scratches
on the page showing where I have been.
I guess I’d rather hope for the illusion and drift in bliss
than write with the clarity of a pointless journey.
and for the record sometimes I dance,
I dance all night
with pen and paper in my hand.
evidently we both prefer to dance with someone else
close in our arms.
evidently the writer never wished
to write alone
but we do.
Imagine Harry and Ginny a few months into their marriage and they’re so happy and in love and then one day they go shopping for food and household items and Harry just casually grabs certain items before Ginny hisses at him to "Check the prices, Harry, God! That bed set is far too expensive, we’re not going to have anything left to get the food with!" And Harry starts to laugh and say "We don’t have to worry about -" and then he stops and he and Ginny look at each other. And Harry realizes that she’s grown up having to measure out all her money and decide what she can and cannot have for a certain week or month or year. And Ginny realizes that she is actually no longer obligated to worry about money ever again.
Imagine Harry and Ginny eating dinner together and Ginny’s telling him about certain meals her mum made and teasing him about how he wolfs everything down and "Honestly Harry, you’re worse than Ron!" and Harry retorts laughingly "well old habits die hard, I had to fight Dudley for meals all the time, you at least knew you were going to eat every day!" And Ginny’s grin starts to fade and she asks "You…you didn’t get to eat everyday?" And Harry realizes what he said and he changes the subject quickly and Ginny looks at the plates in front of him and resists the urge to pile on some more potatoes. And the next day Vernon Dursley’s car is egged.
Imagine Harry and Ginny both suffering from night terrors and PTSD and agreeing that maybe going to that therapist Hermione recommended isn’t such a bad idea, and that’s how Thursday night became Therapy Night when they go out to dinner or to the pub after each session and agree that they need to talk to some Healers about introducing these sessions since therapy is still widely seen as muggle nonsense in the wizarding world.
And Ginny murmurs over her fire whiskey that sometimes she can still hear Tom Riddle murmuring in her ear, and Harry whispers that he dreams about running after his mother and father and Sirius and Remus as they disappear behind the Veil in the Department of Mysteries and he doesn’t know if he wakes from terror or regret about not making it through. And they go back home and hold each other closer that night and both wake up with raging hangovers.