The Great Gatsby.

Fitzgerald wrote about trying to emulate the past by recreating the exact environment in which something happened, and hoping it mimics itself precisely. Utilising nostalgia to recreate the simpler times.
Except your childhood wasn’t exactly that simple and your parents were actually struggling to make ends meet and were wondering if they could afford Christmas presents for the kids that year. The boy you thought liked you back actually liked someone else and just didn’t know how to break it to you, and the way those guys treated you at work wasn’t flattering but in hindsight a form of cruelty.
And no matter how many times you go over it you can’t figure out how you’re here, how you always end up here, alone on a Friday night, with nothing but a cup of tea and a book about space by your elbow. You take a Panadol for your headache but that only works on fevers and doesn’t help you come to terms with the fact that the Sun has a diameter of 1,392,684kms but that distance feels smaller than the space between you and the person you love.
People tell you that your time will come but they say it while sitting on the lap of their boyfriend and they forget that sometimes, just sometimes, people’s time never actually comes or if they do, they miss it because they were too busy looking up at the stars.
And no matter how you try to change deep down unfortunately you’re still you and there must be something about you that no amount of mascara or hair twirls can change; it’s still been five years since you’ve been on a date and it’s a thought that will always haunt you after the third glass of wine.
Jay Gatsby was chasing a thing in his past that was better than his future but still not everything he ever wanted, and it makes you sad when people say they don’t like the novel because they have what you don’t.

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