It’s a strange thing, wanting what you can’t achieve/have. Maybe it’s safer – a focus you can’t get attached to beyond a point.
I think I spilled more of my secrets over this weekend than I have over the the year I’ve been getting to know this crowd.
I regret so much. But at the same time, I’m kind of glad for it all.
I made a drunken idiot out of myself at Gatsby’s party. Which is kind of cliche, when you think about it. It led to yesterday evening: laid on my bed, hungover, on a comedown, unable to bring myself to move. Then the phone started ringing. I barely remember speaking to this person at the party – I’m pretty sure they were hardly there – but they called up anyway. I’d been wrecked, and they wanted to check up on me.
And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.
Well, maybe that’s a little dramatic. Chbosky quotes aside, it was a great thing though. I feel a little more secure, like I know I have people around me who can read my wavelength. And that’s beautiful. Albeit in somewhat terrifying way.
I think in this version of the story, I’d be Jordan Baker. She was in magazines: I write in them. She’s a trusted friend: I like to think I’m the same. She doesn’t really change or progress though. I like to think I will.