Seeking solace -- 11111

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Date Posted: 06:16:48 04/28/02 Sun
Author: Harry Potter
Subject: Seeking solace

An odd feeling of deja vu encroached over him as he ogled his eerily and painfully familiar ambiance with ethereally bright green and owlishly wide eyes. Hadn't he just been here? No, the place he had been in was plutonian; it was different. Much too different to be this kismet vicinity. The crisp cinnamon aroma that titillated one's ability to imbibe scents had registered in his senses before. This was the once maroon slathered bathroom... the place where he slipped into a mendaciously labeled 'eternal' state of hebetude and utter desuetude... he had died? He had died. The epoch when he cynically began feeding faith to the creed that he might be alive was ineffably surreal and flummoxing to him, as he demonstrated by spasdomically clutching his curled up lower limbs to the tremoring trunk of his body and whimpering as tears of somewhat childish and absolutely trepidated shock threaten to come in rivulents down his drained face. Nothing was logical; his mind was not rationally functioning, just like the night he had unpellucidly killed himself out of mercy for his never ending and morbidly twisted plight. The ornerous, cumbersome load upon his strained shoulders had been too much to burden then and it still was now, and now it was also too much to comprehend. This was his second chance, and for once, no vicissitude seemed to lurk in that one perhaps veritable promise. It scared him to the marrow in his bones to know that if he wasn't the only one who could vanquish his wanton arch nemisis, he would not have been resurrected, so to speak. When push came to shove, this is the way it had to be.

Delirium was inevitable; it would come, and it was fast approaching as a vanguard to immure him from all sensibility he might have left. What wounds ever closed without a scar? Under the pretence of what seemed to be irreversible death, he seemed to have transmorgified it into life, or something like it. This concept was like the open wound that salt had been laden into and exacerbated it dramatically because it went against everything he had learned to appeasingly accept. Everything seemed as hopeless as chasing the wind or his shadow. The perplexed boy unsteadily roused himself from his comatose fetal position on the floor after about an hour of whimpering and spells of ague and shaking, nearly lost mentally but overwhelmed emotionally, a cataclysmic combination - the verbatim one that had resulted in his self induced demise. With a surprising paucity of noise from his incapacitated state of mind, he disorientedly wandered the perimeter of the bathroom in a redundant and faraway manner until yet another hour later when he wedged himself free of the lopsided circles he had excessively been ambling. Two hours, he had been alive again, reborn but in a bohemian sort of way, and two hours, he had wasted insouciantly dwaddling about the bathroom, procrastinating the unknown. At long last, he dwindled through the doorframe, his compact contour the only thing viewable in the plenilune washed dormitory... aside of course, those verdant eyes that glistened like beacons in the intense, sable atmosphere.

To his longtime best friend, the rich, ruby apexed Ron, he had expressed his gratitude a million times over verbally and with discomposed lachrymose behavior, an uncharacteristic trait that he had just recently began to develop unshamefully since everything had pushed him off the tip of the iceburg and forced him to dive off into the intrinsical 'deep end,' so to speak. So now, presently, he had a sort of addicted craving to find the indescribably and indubitably endeared Hermione, an utmost, primal need to be held by her; her touch so theraputic that it was as if it were an antidepressant that had become habit forming to him. Therefore, he comported himself with complete naturalness to the domain of the Talontoln; the naturalness so uncorrupted that it was graceless and merely filled with the pristine chivalry that he was world renowned for to his colossal reluctance. It was as if instinct guided him through the intricate, swarthy and gloomily dreary corridors, to a more ardent destination: her. Now, all he needed was someone to let him in, ergo he thumped his fists weakly on the entrance, groaning the sorrowfully pronounced word, "Please!" as he entreated ingression to procure the required proximity to her. The mussed, corbie tinted hair was in exceptional disarray from him grabbing at it since he was so aggrivated to the point of maelstrom with not being let in immediately. The look he presented was one of extreme gravitas. It was no jest that in order to function, she was crucial to his exsistence.

[ooc: note that first he started out in the gerslein common room, went to the corridors, and now he is here. also, if you haven't read today's news update [4/27], do so now or you won't know why harry's back so soon. we just pretended the plutonian plot was over so now everyone can rp, not just maggi and myself.]

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[> Harry Potter -- Taking my leave, 05:17:39 05/06/02 Mon

Again and again, his fists thumped sonorously against the barrier odiously seperating he and the oner that made him bleed himself dry, but to no avail; like his furled digits were mere, unpotent rabbit feet. It seemed that hour after hour tediously and crestfallingly floundered by, to the point that a sort of hope against hope had occured within his brain and a sadistic spell of him hearing things audible to him but not any other person, conjured by the whirlwind of despair in his own mind, transpired, and a few very deliriously morbid moments ensued after this began. Hermione. The ethereally angelic female's image was conceived in his whirling mind, and the mere mention of her christening, her name, contrived a thousand emotions melanging themselves into a conflictingly toned mixture. He needed her then more than ever. Her name was synonymous with euphoria, and hell. Didn't he mean anything to her? She had said she loved him, more than he would ever know, he quoted bitterly inside, and in his frankly unstable physiognomy, the hours that had lethargically and angstily elasped did not demonstrate such. Some people did sleep at night, and this was a fact he didn't seem to quite comprehend. The never prettier, vastly cached and imaginatively engineered slew of colorful curses that effluxed from his mauve mouth gave ample, to put it lightly, insight to the insufferability of the disappointing scenario that had unfolded morosely. Why couldn't there be an alternate ending to this epically trial and error lifestyle of his? Why couldn't it be as simple and cliche as "happily ever after?" The icy cold, frigidly gelid veridescent eyes smoldered as he ruminated critically; a mix of desire and of previously unparelleled indignant anger. With nerves corroded and insensible but substancially non-lacking deemings ablaze, he shoved off of the wall he had been leaning trustingly against and strode with hasty hot-headedness and irrationally off.

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[> [> my god, i'm more screwed up than he is. if you didn't figure it out, i got the subject and name turned around in my mind. don't ask. you probably don't want to know. -- haley, 05:19:59 05/06/02 Mon

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[> [> [> -just rolls her eyes and sighs blankly- closing font tags. -- haley, 05:21:31 05/06/02 Mon

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