I went to the cinema hoping to forget about my own scorched heart, I walked out musing on love and the illusion of it we fall into.
I suppose that is what distinguishes The Great Gatsby as a story.
To think the book was not considered a success when Fitzgerald first published it. If it can transcend time to reach a 21st century girl and keep her thinking for days, he must have written something right.
How I wish my own RS could have been a Gatsby.
One of the wide eyed hopefuls so loyal to his word and so fiercely in love he would have turned the world inside out for me. Built a house right opposite mine for the comfort of knowing I was a few miles away, threw parties just to entertain the smallest hope I might come wandering in.
Once more, I was surprised to find myself crying.
I didn’t even notice until a tear drop landed on the rim of my glasses during the movie. Daisy is walking around Gatsby’s mansion for the first time and he says something along the lines of “doesn’t she make everything more splendid?”
With that one line, I saw a new depth to RS leaving me. I did have a man, or maybe a boy, who offered me the most beautiful words of enduring love no matter how society threatened. I had the promise of affection as indefinite as Gatsby’s was for Daisy, one that would not be tarnished by absence should it ever come to us no longer being together.
Only.. My promise was a lie.
And just like Daisy would have never been able to live up to Gatsby’s perfect image of her, I eventually fell from the pedestal RS had me on. Sometimes I feel he loved me so much, he forgot to accept my flaws in the process. Some other times I feel maybe that’s a contradiction right there. Maybe loving someone means accepting how broken they are.
All the same, somewhere in my damaged soul I still hold on to a notion he poisoned me with. The thought that a heart, his heart, can go on beating for me even though cultural rules already sunk their barbed wires into who we could have been.
That is what he spiked my life with, tales of unconditional love no distance, no separation could ever bend.
Yet, there he is. Him and Boobzella, Boobzella and him, and that ugly, ugly dog that I always hated and that she apparently loves. All together. He carries on with his life. Mine splinters, diseased by romantic ideals only alive in a Fitzgerald novel.
So yes, I cried for my own naivety.
Foolish, foolish me.