I felt… I honestly didn’t know how I felt. I felt I could take on the world and be one of the greats. The likes of Fitzgerald or Eliot. I felt as though the green light was always so close or that I was a jellicle cat, just prouncing about.
But on other days I felt that I wasn’t the speck of dust on the shoe of a migrant worker. The valley of the ashes wouldn’t even accept me and I was neither a peke nor a pollicle.
There was jazz in my soul doing the swing. There were beats of drums and guitar strums running through my veins. I wanted to get up and dance but at the same time I wanted to find the darkest corner with a candle and immerse myself in the greatest of books. Flecks of gold dusted my heart but sprouts of doubt rooted deep in my soul. Doubt of self. But never of love.
I felt like Nick Carroway accompanying someone else’s grand story. But I never knew whose story.
I didn’t have a special thing about me. I wasn’t smart or beautiful like my best friend. I wasn’t worldly and not many people knew nor understood the real me. I was pale and freckles covered my face. My hair was a thick, I want to say lustrous, brown. No other way to describe it. It was one of my best features. That and my lips. They were full and rosy, almost red, in colour. I wasn’t thin but I wasn’t fat. I was mediocre at best. But… but not to him.
I knew books. They were my world. Until I met him. He changed everything. The sprouts of doubt were trimmed down and I felt special. But I still didn’t feel like I could join the hall of the greats. Oh the dreams that I had. Oh the places I wanted to go. I imagined myself writing epic fantasies And great love stories. And when I was with him I felt like magic. The type of magic that changed lives.
I felt like I was a part of the rat pack. I felt like Hemmingway would take me away on one of his adventures. I felt like Mary Shelley was a great acquaintance. I felt like all the lights of Broadway were shining down on me and the audience was clapping my name.
I felt like the type of magic one would find in the beauty of art. Abstract yet refined. I felt like silver slivers of moonlight through darkened trees. I felt like the first rain on a hot summers night. Refreshing and robust. Can rain be robust?
Yet sometimes I felt caught in that downpour, all despair and doubt and longing. Longing for an adventure to write about. Sometimes I wanted to walk the streets of Paris or relax in a Japanese hot spring. I felt that I wanted to travel the world and leave everything behind. Everything but him. He was my own adventure, my own romance story and when I looked into his eyes I saw the world. And I was overwhelmed with love. And then I remembered that my life was a grand adventure in itself. The sun rose on me and I was content. Happy. Ecstatic. Elated. In love. Always in love. He was the reminder that my life was, not perfect, but so close. So very close. Every moment with him was a bright spot when I wasn’t off day dreaming about writing.
Trinkets littered my room and they meant so much to me. I could tell a story about each and every one and I could regale you with so many tales. But that is for another time. A time for windy days and sunless shades. A day for champagne and orange juice or vodka on the rocks.
I have a full life ahead of me and I will be one of the greats.