reasonablyunqualified

[reasonablyunqualified]

Two Years Later There Are Still Unexpected Complications – Life Shouldn’t Be This Hard

by Lili Buchanan

Ever felt like you miss a person so bad, it’s basically suffocating you, but you manage to ignore it for the most part, because, well, you’re kind of in denial about it and you’re also enjoying it a bit? Wait, let me explain, you’re enjoying it, because it’s all yours and it’s something real, something interesting that usually only happens to other people. But now that it’s happened to you, you don’t like it of course, frankly it just fucking sucks (although, it does prove that it was real, and you didn’t just imagine it all!). And you wish, you could just move on and forget all about it, except you don’t wish that, because that would mean that it maybe never even happened (and you can’t let it just slip away that easy!), and it would also mean that it’s never going to be fixed. And this is your obsession, fixing it, this is what you actually fucking want with all your heart and soul, desperately want it, need it, crave it. Even though he was a fucking idiot and he hurt you (more than he could ever imagine) and he doesn’t deserve you, shit, he really doesn’t, fixing it is all you can think about.

And most would think, this is some sad rubbish about love and relationships and an ex-boyfriend, and oh, you wish it was that easy, because maybe that would justify the intensity of the way you feel (at least a little bit), but no, it was just a fucking friendship, and yes, you want to think it was deeper and more important to both of you and meant more than any stupid teenage romance could have, but actually at this point, you’re not even sure, if you ever knew each other at all. You’re not sure, you can’t be, because time fades all the memories and your mind does silly things and all you have left is the pain (how clichéd…) and an idea of him, a picture that probably has absolutely nothing to do with reality.

Still, you have the facts, no one can deny those, no mind-fuckery and memory-fading can take them away from you, and the facts say that you were friends at some point, but you’re still not sure, because he just made you question fucking everything (everything about life, about yourself, about friendships) and you’re just simply not sure about anything any more. So you have to tell yourself, you have to reassure yourself, that yes, you didn’t just imagine it, you didn’t just make it all up, it is a fact. You were friends. Best friends (that’s debatable, but let’s just leave it for now). Best bloody friends. Fact.

Initially it was the three of you. Well, actually, the two of them, then the three of you and then it just sort of became the two of you. And that’s it, that’s all you know for sure. Because now, looking back on it, you think that he was the one person, you could tell everything (and I mean really everything), he was the one you called when something happened, he was exactly doing what that special best friend is supposed to be doing, only it was better because it was problematic and real, the way it should be, but what if… What if that was never the case? What if you just imagined it all, what if you never actually felt like that, it’s just your mind filling in gaps, it’s just your imagination, or your readiness to romanticise every fucking thing, and what if it’s just wishful thinking, because – and that is a fact too – you’ve always wanted that one special best friend, so maybe you just made it all up...?

Actually, there is another option that is even worse than that (and it’s because of this why you started questioning everything). Because what if, it was real for you, but it was never real for him? What if he never depended on you as much (or at all) as you depended on him, what if it was never mutual, what if he just put up with you (you know, he’s capable of that, because you know him very well, because you were best fucking friends), what if it didn’t mean anything to him?

And the moments when you think like that, the moments when you think, it was never a friendship, but basically just you obsessing over him (and look, it’s two years later and you’re still doing it), those are your worst and lowest moments. Because just thinking about it makes you feel like you’ll never be able to smile ever again, because how can it mean nothing to him, (and worse:) how could it mean nothing to him at the time, when it still means so fucking much to you? But if it means so much to you, how is it possible that it wasn’t real – it can’t all be wishful thinking and imagining things, right? And you remember that at some point even your teacher said (and that is pretty much proof that you were best friends after all) that you’ll end up together for life, and that you should cherish your friendship, because it’s not often that you find someone you connect this well with.

And fuck, you’re not even sure if he ever thinks about you any more – actually, he probably doesn’t, why would he, he’s fine, he’s not you, he’s not a maniac, he’s not obsessed, of course, he doesn’t think about you – and you wish he would, you wish it so hard, even if there doesn’t seem to be any hope (and that’s just the problem, because there does seem to be hope and other stuff as well, but what if it’s just your mind doing the illusion thing again – see what I mean about questioning everything?). And you don’t want to be pathetic (pretty late for that, you can’t sink any lower, although there was that friend who said that there is always a ‘lower’ and you tend to agree with that most of the time), but… you want to write to him. And not just write to him, but to fucking fight for him and for your friendship (this is your way of keeping the teacher’s advice and cherishing it), because you still believe that if your situations were reversed (although you would probably never be able to do to him what he did to you), he would fight for you too, and it’s a far-fetched thought, but for fuck’s sake, you were best friends after all.

Sometimes you wish you could hate him – not just in a dream-way, but when you find eyelashes, or when you see a shooting star, when you check your phone and it’s 11 past 11 and once a year on your birthday when you blow out your candles. You waste your wishes on wanting to hate him, but you can’t. You know, you should hate him, god, you really should, he didn’t even let you have the satisfaction to have a nice little dramatic background story, because it sounds ridiculous as well – ‘what do you mean he didn’t wanna be friends, how old is he, was this in nursery or something?’ – and maybe you were too young, not in numbers, but in mind, perhaps. And you mumble, ashamed for some reason, when it’s him who should be ridiculed, ‘We wrote each others letters, every week, 1114.8 miles was nothing when he wrote me letters. And the last one was six pages long and it just said, he didn’t want to be friends with me anymore. That he’s outgrown me, that we have done everything we could do together and now it was time to move on.’ It was as close to a break-up letter as it gets, but you weren’t together like that, you never imagined this could happen, you trusted him more than you ever trusted anyone in your life and fuck, maybe you do hate him for it, but you would also forgive him without a moment of hesitation if he asked you to.

And actually you got to the point where it doesn’t even matter what happened in the past, the only thing that matters is that you want to be where he is, not even talking or anything, just… you want to sit quietly next to him, out in the cold and smoke a cigarette and maybe not talk about things. (And this idea is what really shows how surreal and over-romanticised the whole thing has become in your head – or was it always like this?) And actually, you would be happy to get to know him again, no matter how much he changed, you want to know what’s up with him, what kind of music he listens to at the moment, what his plans for the future are, how he’s coping with all the studying and you want to know all about his life, because (now you’ve just come to the conclusion that it’s a reflex, it’s just instinct) you still think about him as your best friend. After all he has done, and has said (actually written), and after every awkward smile you shared when meeting again, after everything he’s put you through and after everything that’s happened, you still think of him as your best friend. Because you cannot possibly admit it – to anyone, but least to yourself – that you’ve pretty much become strangers. And that’s why you mention him all the time in random conversations, that’s why you tell your pathetic tragic little story to everyone who’s willing to listen, because it makes you feel like you still know him. And that’s sad. Because, fuck it, this wasn’t meant to happen, this wasn’t what you’ve bargained for; this was supposed to be a friendship for life, not a messy, complicated and idiotic teenage fuck-up that you just can’t get over.

And you’re slowly, but surely convincing yourself that you should write to him. That you should tell him what you feel. (He actually asked you to, in that last letter of his, but you didn’t reply, because you felt betrayed and shocked – fuck, you were so shocked that you didn’t even cry about it until an entire year later, when you locked yourself into the toilet at college and couldn’t stop sobbing for about forty minutes.) Sometimes you think, he wouldn’t care, that he would actually laugh about it and show it to other people, so they can laugh too. But deep down, in your heart, you believe that it’s still fixable and you have to keep trying, and write to him every day, until he changes his mind, you believe with unbelievable might that you have to write him long-long letters and finish them with the same ‘and here I am trying’ line every time and then it’s all going to be okay.

Or maybe you want to write to him because you want closure (that’s what your current best friend says, who watched it all happen – and who knows? maybe she's right; it wouldn't be the first time) or maybe you’ve become one of those teenage poets that get off on depression and get inspired by pain, who knows. What you do know is that as the responsible one in the friendship (the friendship that doesn’t even exist any more) it is your job to keep trying. Because how would you be able to look in the mirror every morning if you can’t fight for something that is this important to you?

[reasonablyunqualified]

The Summer Of Vanilla Ice Cream

by Lili Buchanan

We spent that summer in the blind haze of clumsy kisses and bright smiles across rooms. It was a real teenage romance, but at the time, of course, it didn't feel like it. It felt real. Perhaps it was real.

Have you ever sat in a window at night, giggling, eating melted vanilla ice cream? You should try it. Even if you prefer strawberry.

I was never really conscious of it, but at the time it mattered a great deal to me what other people thought of me. It was a school thing. I wanted to be one of the... popular girls. But you see, it's a funny little thing, because when you're really truly in love, you don't care about what the other girls think; you don't look at them, searching for envious approval in their eyes. And that's the real beauty of love – losing all control and falling, just falling and falling, till you reach the bottom. That's what love is, not thinking about anything else, not caring what awaits you down there. Sparkling eyes, intertwined fingers, the smell of sun cream and the colours of spring in the heat of summer.

I think we met in a Starbucks, but I'm not sure. She smiled at me, I smiled at her. She had that soft kind of smile, that is so rare and you just can't look away from it. It radiates into your heart, into your dreams, into your life. Into your summer.

She ordered a tall vanilla latte. Her quiet-blue eyes were focused on finding her wallet in her bag. Her blonde locks fell into her face and she tucked them behind her ear gently. She didn't seem to be in a hurry.

It was one of those surprisingly hot summers, when people get sunburnt and then complain about it for weeks. We ate a lot of ice cream and I was always a strawberry kind of girl, but she preferred vanilla and when you're in love the flavours don't really matter. So it was the summer of vanilla ice cream and it was the summer of hope.

Because we hoped, oh how badly we did, that it would never end, never ever, trying everything to slow time down – begging, hysterics, blankness, not knowing what to do.

We read Keats, out loud to each other and we listened to all of Cole Porter's early songs. We explored churches with cool, old, knowing walls and we saw peaceful yellow-blue beaches. And we tried – and failed – to find a reason for the unexplainable colour-changes of the sea and we went to university campuses of so many different cities and we hoped... oh how desperately we hoped!

And when summer eventually ended, I sat down, and finished my ice cream. I was eating self-conscious strawberry again. What was the point after all? And that's how autumn washed away my summer love.

[reasonablyunqualified]

trees

My family have this habit, we cut all our trees down, then we get new, different ones. Usually we do that at the beginning of spring or on my birthday, sometimes when Mum's having a bad day. Once we had this whole process done on a Thursday -  I didn't really get that though. I'm outside, looking at those brand new, white and pale trees, we had them changed yesterday. I want to hug them, they look so lonely, but Mum wants me in, dinner's ready. Coming, Mum, I'm looking at the trees. There's a confused pause, then

Trees? What trees?

[reasonablyunqualified]

Killian Boyd Tries To Kill Himself Because Of Very Serious Matters

by Lili Buchanan

Killian Boyd was going to kill himself on July 31st, exactly at 9pm, by jumping out of his bedroom window right out onto the rainy London pavement. It wasn't that he had had enough of life and couldn't take all the misery any more – on the contrary, Killian was about 30, generally quite happy with his life and about to get married. Moreover he had wonderful experiences to look forward to and colourful memories to look back on, and nothing indicated really that he had a reason to commit suicide.

He had a lovely childhood – a most ordinary one -, his parents were caring, although, one must admit, rather boring, and his brother was a kind, friendly fella, and Killian and him got along perfectly well. Therefore Killian had no childhood tragedy to dwell on, no screwed up memories of horrible Christmases ever came back to him during sleepless nights and he definitely wasn't ruined by anything nasty that might have happened during one Easter break, when he was seven, and could have involved lots of shouting and throwing plates.

He went to university in London, studying something rather useless (not to be confused with pointless tough!), probably Aesthetics or Philology or Theoretical Linguistics, which made him quite happy, as he was the kind who could spend hours reading in the British Library's dimly lit café.

He probably dated some girl during his uni years, but nothing came out of it really; she was majoring in Chemistry and Killian had always hated Chemistry, which frankly, didn't make things easy.

After graduation, he decided to travel and see all of the world's magical places, therefore, as most people who decide to travel, he, too, stayed right where he was; got a job, and didn't go absolutely anywhere.

He worked for Random House as an assistant to the assistant of one the junior editors, which mainly involved emailing and photocopying and had nothing to do with books, but at least he didn't have to make coffee for anyone, but himself.

Killian met her there, in the office, right in front of the annoying blonde Irish secretary's desk; she was the PA of a fresh and daring, new, aspiring writer (meaning rubbish and limitedly interesting) and he fell in love with her in about 34 seconds. Her name was Angela or Poppy or Wendy or Tilly or something undeniably British and she was the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. She had butterscotch-blonde hair, sky-blue eyes and a very pretty, curly figure. He went up to her and shyly asked her out on a date, forgetting to introduce himself beforehand, and to his, her and the annoying blonde Irish secretary's surprise, she said yes. They went to this cute place in Covent Garden the next Thursday and after finally introducing himself properly, everything was right on track.

Love was nothing like Killian imagined. It wasn't hot and desperate and needy and cathartic, it was quiet and understanding and beautiful and she moved in with him after six months, without him actually noticing anything had changed at all. They ate porridge together every morning, which was really nice. Killian had always liked porridge, especially with strawberry jam, though she preferred maple syrup.

Killian noticed the first grays in the hair of his reflection the very day he got promoted and proposed to Angela-Poppy two days later, on a sunny Friday. She said “Oh, of course, why not, I suppose.” instead of a simple yes and he absolutely loved her for it.

Up to this point things were generally quite wonderful, marvellous even, and definitely satisfactory in every possible way. Killian had everything he never dreamed about (he just wasn't the dreamy type) and he felt successful in Tackling Life's Totally Horrible Nasty Problems.

But there was one thing, he didn't expect. Something that completely ruined everything, something that took away all his happiness, something that sucked out of him all the willingness to live. Wedding planning. Combined with the fact of course that Angela-Wendy didn't even want to hear about it. She told him so the next morning after the proposal, stating that if he wanted anything fancier than a white summer dress (the one she bought in Portugal last summer) and a registry office (the Marylebone one, because that was closest) he would have to do it all by himself. Mainly because, as she said, she wasn't interested in giving out free alcohol and food to a hundred people whom she very much disliked (you don't choose your own family after all, nor your fiancé’s for that matter) and definitely loathed some of them (she was talking about Uncle Rupert, of course).

So on a terrible Saturday afternoon Killian Boyd sat down and started planning his wedding. Because although, he wasn't the fancy type and he didn't much mind uneventfulness (his greatest adventure that month was trying porridge with raspberry instead of strawberry jam on one Sunday – he didn't like it), but he wanted his wedding with Wendy-Angela to be special and unique. So he ordered some wedding planning books on the internet and from then on read those instead of the Guardian at the breakfast table and that's how wedding planning started to slowly overtake his life. Because unfortunately trying to distinguish between pearl white, porcelain white and egg shell proved to be much more stressful than he anticipated and soon he found that his biggest problem in life was that he had to choose a flower decoration from the range of sixty irritatingly identical ones. He also wasn't that thoroughly interested in the question of what kind of bow they used on the invitations. And then something even more terrible happened. He had to start on the seating arrangements.

Aunt Cecily didn't want to sit next to Uncle Rupert, for understandable reasons, but Uncle Rupert couldn't be seated anywhere else, because he hated cigarette smoke. As it turned out Dennis Holden's girlfriend did want to come after all, only Dennis forgot to mention he had a plus one, but this was nothing compared to the anxiousness caused by Cousin Emily calling Killian 6 times on Monday to make sure she wasn't sitting anywhere near John Mills – whom she had the misfortune to date once – and was also a “bloody racist pig” and frankly who invited him in the first place. This was not all, of course – there were nine people who were vegetarian, but six of them who hated tofu, furthermore two allergic to chocolate, but wanting to taste the cake.

Killian had enough. Frankly, he felt broken, crushed and pretty much dead inside. So after a particularly long call from Cousin Emily about John Mills (“He's the nastiest of them all, I'm telling you!”) Killian sat down to his desk, got out his wedding planner and put it down to July 31st, 9pm with neat black letters –

kill self.

And there it was, 9pm came and Killian didn't have to think about plates and flowers, decorations and seats and all that any more – he finally had a way out. He stepped in front of his bedroom window determinedly, looked out into the darkening London evening and got ready to jump. He took a deep breath and-

'Killian, darling, can you please put the kettle on, love? Earl Grey for me, one sugar!' he heard Angela-Wendy-Tilly calling from the bathroom. Killian paused for a moment, then let out an annoyed sigh, and finally closed the window.

'I know how you drink your tea,' he murmured distractedly, considering what other day would be suitable for killing himself. He didn't find one. His calendar was full.

'Oh well,' he said grumpily and went to put on the kettle.

[reasonablyunqualified]

There Is Nothing Happy About It

by Lili Buchanan

Dr Turner is aware that the only reason Happy Loman shows up every Wednesday at 15.30 is because therapy sessions became an American cultural phenomenon. Nowadays there's nothing more normal than to have a shrink, and because everyone has one, Happy does too. She soon realizes that Happy has a thing about pretending to fit in, but secretly believing he's above the rest, so it's not a surprise that he treats therapy like a joke, thinking he doesn't need it. For him it's just a bit of chit-chat, a 45 minute break from life, something that is necessary for the fulfilment of his compulsive desire to be admired and well-liked by everyone.

He usually talks about his work; it's mainly just never-ending anecdotes of co-workers that annoy him – “all those petty, common sons of bitches” –, stories about pitiful tasks, he executes on a daily basis as a sort of charity towards the world. He talks a lot about women too, his ex-girlfriends, his ex-wives, his current wife, and most times he can't stop himself from talking about the women he's cheating on his wife with. He smiles smugly every time he mentions a new affair, with that expectant light in his eyes, that means, she's supposed to be impressed that he's sharing his secrets with her. He craves attention and popularity, because in his mind, they mean success.

He talks about his family too, quite often actually, but he's rarely honest about them. (No matter how good he is at pretending that all those stories about him and his brother are recent, she knows that he doesn't even have Biff's phone number.) It's all hyperboles and superlatives, the perfect American family, living the most wonderful life that there is; exaggerated stories about vacations that probably never actually happened, hilarious jokes that he's only taking the credit for, incredible basketball games between brothers, unforgettable barbecue parties with his dad – all just lies and lies and lies and lies. For some reason, she thinks, it's more naivety than arrogance.

It takes less than a month for him to seduce her completely and another two weeks for her to start sleeping with him. She hates herself for it – it's not just unethical, but pretty foolish as well –, but he's charming and handsome and she can't help but fall for his little tricks and corny, movie-like lines every time. She's painfully aware of the fact that he only sleeps with her because he can, not because he actually wants to, but it doesn't matter. She's not like all the others, she tells herself – she's not stupid enough to believe all the camaraderie, after all. No, the reason she's having an affair with him (or rather he's having an affair with her) is a lot to do with her saviour complex.

Because she wants to save him. She wants to be the one that finally gives him purpose, the one that frees him from the burden of the miserable life that he built around achieving his father's dream. And she can't help it, because every time they lie next to each other in Happy's moonlit, disgustingly expensive and extravagant loft – she wonders how many wives filed for divorce because finding out about this place – and Happy lists all the things he has, all the things he doesn't need, it breaks her heart; the way he always finishes with a miserable, deluded, but hopeful “and still, goddamnit, I'm lonely!”.

Happy is the reason why she starts questioning the definition of success. Because Happy is successful, there is no doubt about it. He has a huge house, a car that she could probably never afford, a respectable business job at a respectable business company and a trophy wife – people kill for a lot less than a life like his. Except that he is not successful at all. Not on a human level. There is that constant, repressed unhappiness in his eyes, every time, and he can't, he simply just can't understand why he's feeling so shallow and empty inside when he has everything his father ever dreamed of.

The problem is that his tendency to believe is so very different to his father's blind faith in his the American dream. For Happy it's a lot more personal than that. He believes with everything he has that his father was right, that this is the only dream there is worth living for, but he doesn't actually believe in it himself. He's still trying to please the good old Pop, after so many years; trying to prove that his father didn't die for nothing, even though he knows that it's not just too late, but frankly, utterly pointless. No one expects it from him any more, no one ever did actually, but he carries on regardless, unable to just let go.

His mild eating disorder, she guesses, is the result of that; trying to compete with his brother for their father's attention – classic case of childhood emotional neglect, no question about it –, losing weight to impress his Pop. She is too involved with him now, so she just pretends, she never caught him staring at his reflection in the mirror, muttering “I'm losing weight, you notice, Pop?”.

She thinks, it's equally astounding and unbearably depressing that he doesn't actually believe in the dream himself. He knows exactly, how shallow he is for wanting a bigger house, a more expensive car, and more and more women – he is always the happiest when looking forward to something new and glamorous –, but he does it anyway. He looks down on his co-workers, but he does everything that they do and probably the only thing that makes him different from them is that he feels miserably unfulfilled while doing it.

But despite all of that – every single horrible aspect of it –  what scares her the most about Happy Loman is not his commitment to something he has no faith in. It's his constancy. Never changing, never moving either forward or backward. He doesn't improve, he doesn't get worse, he just always is – exactly the way he was when he first called her secretary to arrange an appointment. If he was a character in a play, she would think, his character development was abandoned so blatantly by the writer that it was perhaps on purpose.

[reasonablyunqualified]

BOATS AGAINST THE CURRENT

by Lili Buchanan

Characters NICK CARRAWAY DAISY BUCHANAN (voice only)

 Act 1 Scene 1

The stage is dark and empty, except for one chair in the middle. A man walks in, he's in his 70s, he doesn't seem old, more... broken. He's dressed quite formally, clothes reminiscent of the 1920s. A dark gray overcoat, bow-tie, a boater hat. He supports himself with a walking stick, but tries hard so it doesn’t show. He moves slowly, but his steps seem mindful, not tired.

He sits on the chair, puts his walking stick down, takes his hat off. His posture is upright, still proud.

He doesn't look at the audience when he starts speaking, he talks to himself. His voice is strong and loud, but slow and exhausted, almost hesitant.

NICK: I haven't been completely honest with you, I must admit. (he takes a deep breath) When I wrote my book about Gatsby, I left out a significant amount of details, and perhaps without those, the summer I've spent in the East means something entirely different. Our world and society began changing recently, and although as hopeless and disappointing as it still might be, acceptance made an appearance. It's perhaps because of this more accepting world, I came to know over the last decade, that I am here now, talking about this, although it very well could be because of my own mind's frustration, that simply cannot bear it any more. (he's considering every word carefully) When I left the East that autumn and started organizing my thoughts into a coherent collection of words, it was a necessity for me to write them down. My heart reached its limit of judgments and riotous excursions, and I had to write it all down – life, death... and love –, because I wanted to rid of my words, my memories.

It was only later that I realized, that upon publishing, many details cannot possibly be included – partly because of their personal value and partly because of the restrictions of the era, people now often call “golden” and “free”. (Daisy’s laugh, full of money and naivety, can be heard in the background, alongside the faint, haunting melody of Bix Beiderbecke's 'Riverboat Shuffle') I didn't know any different at the time, and although I did suffer from its limitations, it was not my freedom that was violated, but my personal right to self-expression. For, writing that book meant relief and a form of escape, but simultaneously it was my medicine, my drug, my way of re-living the past. All of what I once firmly believed, every “You can't repeat the past”, came crumbling down on me, and I blindly believed that immortalizing my memories in the form of words would bring back at least a little part of him and what we had together. (bitterly, while the music gets louder) Of course, I am not claiming I succeeded – on the contrary, I failed in the most humanly way possible; I became a victim of my own words' lure. I brought back pieces of the past and interpreted them in ways that don't even come close to reality, for I can never truly – through any description, metaphor or other sophisticated literary way – give back the feelings, the exact words or realistic telling of events, in their true form, as they happened.

Sometimes I consider, (smiles a sad smile, this is not the first time, he thinks about this) that writing the book might have been a mistake, but at the time it was a coping mechanism, which, of course consequentially meant that honesty was not my first priority. “I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men”! (he quotes his own words bitterly, with a hint of self-loathing in his voice) What an eloquent, misleading choice of words…! But I managed to lose myself in those words; I was so deep in denial that I couldn't see the difference between memories and typed pages any more – that was the way I got through the next few years of silent suffering and self-blame. (waits a beat, pretends that he doesn't hear the music, but then passionately, explaining) I wanted to remember, I wanted to save those memories from the inevitable fade of my mind, but remembering was... too vivid and final, and perhaps made it all wrong.

When I met Gatsby, for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a chance to belong; a desperate thought of an otherwise hopeless, broken man. His smile was full of the promises of life, he had an atmosphere of irresistible, romantic readiness about him and up until that point, I perhaps never lived. (he lets out a sarcastic, humorless chuckle) What I called living until that summer was only a pathetic, closed-minded haze of darkness, that included rumors of fake engagements – rumors, I hated but were in my best interest to keep alive -, and lunch hours spent in hotel rooms on Mr. McKee's name. After meeting Gatsby, the word ‘life’ itself changed its meaning and I had more will to experience the curiosities of the world than ever before. Because of Gatsby, I began to hope too; even love (he presses the word with unnecessary harshness) could happen, without any particular wonder. Said life however, due to his death, was fated to a cruelly abrupt end. (short pause, as if it was still too painful)

I was fascinated by the easy way Gatsby understood everything around him; his awareness and sensitivity to life was something unique and irreplaceable. As I suspected from the moment I first saw him, I've never found anyone in my life with a more gorgeous mind, never met anyone with such an extraordinary gift for hope.

(the music has finally stopped and the admission comes quickly, all at once, after so many years of secrecy) It seems self-explanatory that I was in love with him from that very first moment. I believe, people that are alike are drawn to each other in life. They find each other through intuitions and basic desires, in the hazy cloud of parties, carelessness and alcohol that life is... or was at the time. (Daisy’s laugh and the frantic music again, this time it’s louder, but both are cut short abruptly as Nick starts speaking determinedly) I'd like to think that Gatsby and I made an instant connection, and even though I was not able to describe the real effect, his stunning personality had on me, in my book due to reasons previously mentioned, I think our relationship – if I can call it one – and its unique nature was obvious for even the most ignorant of readers. (the first time he looks up) You are perhaps not shocked by the aspect of a man loving another man, but it was a great burden on my life for a long time, and the main reason behind why I moved to the East in the first place. My family's expectations were slowly suffocating me and I only managed to escape this worry to find myself stricken by grief and misery yet again.

That last night, the last night of Gatsby's life, and consequently, in a way, mine too, was a night of privileged, silent confessions and stories of glimmering memories from the past. Gatsby told me about his childhood, his dreams, his fears, the way he left James Gatz behind and never looked back. And I told him about the deep hopelessness that occupied my heart until I met him. He understood every word, I said, without needing any explanation, and I knew, he suspected it all, even before I told him. There was always a strange sparkling in his eyes when he asked me for stories from my youth, or about my recent romances, and I never said anything, but that strange light in his eyes was there and it could have meant anything, but we both understood, it meant that he knew.  And the way he... listened...! By the time I missed my third train into the city that morning, I was certain that I had found something that I would never find again. I can still remember his smile, his hopeful, world-moving smile that everyone claimed to understand, but perhaps no one really did, except for me…

You have to believe me when I say that it was only later that I fully recognized the depths of what I... (hesitating, as if embarrassed) felt. It was only after the tragedy of his death that I was capable of realizing what real misery meant. It is not uncommon, on the contrary, it is quite a human trait; we only realize what we had when we have already lost it. The agony of the next few years had left their fiery, alcohol-induced mark on my soul forever, and I am certain that I will never forget Jay's promising smile and his incredible ability to hope. And... there is nothing that I admire more in a person, there is nothing that I wish more than... to able to hope like that.

Nick stares at the audience with hopeless eyes, the lights fade, it’s all dark again.

[reasonablyunqualified]

sometimes you share too much of yourself and you regret it immediately, because you’ve just given away something important that will either live on or die in someone else’s mind and that’s honestly terrifying