I hope I can live up to your fine literary standards. You've certainly set a high bar. Here's hoping becoming well-read doesn't automatically lead to an increase in depression, because I've got quite enough of that to start with. But then again, brilliant people are often a bit unbalanced, aren't they?
I suppose I must be destined for brilliance.
I've been better this year, though. Much better. I've been happy more than I've been sad. I still worry too much about everything, though. That's all your fault, of course.
Kidding.
Sort of.
I've been thinking a lot about this lately, mostly because I've been writing Sirius about it (which I'm sure you would be quite amused by), but I find it quite ironic that I started talking to you because I couldn't talk openly to your brother, and then when you were thrown away like you were, that was the what made me sit up and be angry and really notice that things were wrong and rotten, and it made me learn that even people like you and me, people who were born into the right sort of families, even we weren't safe.
I'm so sorry, Regulus.
I'm sorry that all I could do was watch while you were broken into little pieces.
I'm sorry that I might've made things worse for you.
I'm not sorry that I cared what happened to you, though. I'm not sorry that you have people who mourn you, and miss you, and wish you hadn't died. And that I'm one of those people.
Sometimes I think about what you would be like if things were different. Like if you'd never run away. But then I don't think I would've liked the you that hadn't run away nearly as much. And I don't blame you one bit for not wanting to be here. I don't want to be here either sometimes.
If you'd run away and never come back, I don't suppose you'd take the same route as your brother and write, and if you had, I would've gotten in trouble for talking to you so I wouldn't have bothered. But I'd rather you were alive and sitting on a sunny beach somewhere, reading a book and missing England, and not ever have known you at all.
And if you'd have stayed alive, if you were strong and managed to hold on, well, I'm sort of torn on that one too. It's awful to think of, but now that I've had some time to sort it out, I don't think He wanted you to ever become a complete person again. I think He was trying to push and twist you until you weren't you any more, only you killed yourself before He could.
Sometimes, it's brave to run away.
Sometimes, it's better to decide your own fate.
I don't know if I'd be strong enough to hold on for as long as you did, and make the choice you made. I hope I never have to be that strong.
I put out two sickles on my windowsill for you. And I'm going to look for your star tonight.
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branchandroot
I Solemnly Swear That I Am Up To No Good
Date: 2012-05-21 01:02 am (UTC)I've nearly finished the first volume of Beckett.
I hope I can live up to your fine literary standards. You've certainly set a high bar. Here's hoping becoming well-read doesn't automatically lead to an increase in depression, because I've got quite enough of that to start with. But then again, brilliant people are often a bit unbalanced, aren't they?
I suppose I must be destined for brilliance.
I've been better this year, though. Much better. I've been happy more than I've been sad. I still worry too much about everything, though. That's all your fault, of course.
Kidding.
Sort of.
I've been thinking a lot about this lately, mostly because I've been writing Sirius about it (which I'm sure you would be quite amused by), but I find it quite ironic that I started talking to you because I couldn't talk openly to your brother, and then when you were thrown away like you were, that was the what made me sit up and be angry and really notice that things were wrong and rotten, and it made me learn that even people like you and me, people who were born into the right sort of families, even we weren't safe.
I'm so sorry, Regulus.
I'm sorry that all I could do was watch while you were broken into little pieces.
I'm sorry that I might've made things worse for you.
I'm not sorry that I cared what happened to you, though. I'm not sorry that you have people who mourn you, and miss you, and wish you hadn't died. And that I'm one of those people.
Sometimes I think about what you would be like if things were different. Like if you'd never run away. But then I don't think I would've liked the you that hadn't run away nearly as much. And I don't blame you one bit for not wanting to be here. I don't want to be here either sometimes.
If you'd run away and never come back, I don't suppose you'd take the same route as your brother and write, and if you had, I would've gotten in trouble for talking to you so I wouldn't have bothered. But I'd rather you were alive and sitting on a sunny beach somewhere, reading a book and missing England, and not ever have known you at all.
And if you'd have stayed alive, if you were strong and managed to hold on, well, I'm sort of torn on that one too. It's awful to think of, but now that I've had some time to sort it out, I don't think He wanted you to ever become a complete person again. I think He was trying to push and twist you until you weren't you any more, only you killed yourself before He could.
Sometimes, it's brave to run away.
Sometimes, it's better to decide your own fate.
I don't know if I'd be strong enough to hold on for as long as you did, and make the choice you made. I hope I never have to be that strong.
I put out two sickles on my windowsill for you. And I'm going to look for your star tonight.
I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you so much, Pirate.