The Reverse Horcrux

This is the first of two Potter themed entries.



Last week, I had an epiphany of Potter proportions.

I had inadvertently made a horcrux.

Rather a reverse horcrux.

Whereas Voldemort's horcruxes were products of an act of supreme evil, murder. Murder, as differentiated from killing, is an act of supreme selfishness. You kill for self-gain, which is the opposite of love, an act of self-sacrifice, as Lily Potter did that night at Godric Hollow.

To rent your soul into two or seven is act of extreme cowardice that gave Voldemort a chance at immortality (or at lease an increased statistical advantage over death) at the cost of his own humanity.

In fact, the theme of Deathly Hallows is ironic. The three artifacts that Voldemort (and in the new film series, Grindelwald) sought out were supposed to master Death. However to master Death is not to cheat or avoid it, but to accept it as an inevitability of life. It is this, among many other instances, that best demonstrates his inability to understand what it means to be alive. To master death, you must accept it. Failure to do so will lead to a life that is cannot be fully lived.

And so the act of making a horcrux, which Voldemort sees as an act of power and dominance is really a means to run away from the inevitable course of one's life, an act of cowardice. Most tellingly in his  hubris, he attempted to kill Harry Potter and created an accidental horcrux which eventually led to his own fall. Something he did not, and could not, foresee due to his inability and refusal to love.

To love is a scary thing indeed. It is to put another's well-being ahead of one's own, and that leaves us vulnerable to being hurt. If we're lucky, that love is returned and that other person would put your well-being ahead of their own. Then maybe, just maybe you could take care of each other.

I can safely say that my accidental horcrux was not a product of murder. In fact, it was an anti-horcrux. I did not mean to make it. However, after the fact, once the dust has settled, I felt like my soul was rent and a piece of me was given away. Never meant to return to me.

It was a letter.

I don't really write letters anymore. And even when I did, it was nothing like this. In fact, I don't even write anymore. People often tell me you should write more. You write well. But I never really do. I had always thought it was out of laziness.

I realize now that that's not true. It's because when I write, it takes all my heart, mind, and soul. When I write, I have to write for someone, an audience whether real or imagined. And when all is finally committed to ink and paper, or pixel and screen, I am spent.

Others write to show off. Others use words to obscure or to hide. I use my writing to reveal the truth, or at least who I am. Naked, raw, and turned inside out.

So when I wrote that letter, it was as if I had given away something precious. No. I did. I gave away a part of myself that I perhaps had never given away before. It was more to me than when I had given away my virginity, spent my life savings on someone, or gave up years of my life. All in the span of a day and a night, pouring over words that individually appeared on my screen, one letter at a time.

It was by no means perfect. After I had sent it, the editor in me keeled over in horror, but he was hushed by the writer. It was all right. It was done.

I had torn myself into two. Gave away a part of my soul. Yet by some miracle, I am still whole. Perhaps more so of a person.

I am constantly surprised that I had still something to give. That still had the energy to carry on. Courage can be difficult to come by, but there are things worth fighting for, even when there is no reason to hope.

I suppose that is the power of, well whatever that is. Or was. Or what it could be. It may seem foolish, but I know it to be real, justified and true.