Dear Taylor, Nothing Gold Can Stay

Dear Taylor,

I am writing you this open letter, posted on my blog, to discuss something that will be difficult for you to digest. I didn’t want to make this a public matter, but according to the legally binding directives issued on your behalf from a federal court, I am not allowed to contact you through “phone calls, text messages, the U.S. Postal Service, the Canadian Postal Service, email, smoke signals, standing under your window with Peter Gabriel playing out of a boombox, American Sign Language, Canadian Sign Language, relaying messages through your hair stylist’s roommate’s cousin, arranging your AlphaBits cereal, or shaving love notes into the side of your dog.”

A dog this size takes lots of tranquilizers.

You see, Taylor, you have left me with no choice but to tack these hurtful words onto the internet and hope you somehow see it. You might want to take a seat, preferably in a sturdy, comfortable chair with hand rests in case you slump over from the shock. No, not that one. Sturdier…ok, now we’re ready.

Taylor, I am leaving you.

Now, I know you must be inconsolable at this point, so I hope you have a guitar nearby to absorb your tears. I never understood why you didn’t simply wipe your face with tissue like everyone else, but we all have our little quirks, and that is not why I’m leaving.

And it’s not because you’re more famous than I am, you being an international music sensation that has sold 20 million albums worldwide and me being best known for my gripping portrayal of Johnnycakes in Emma Sansom High School’s production of The Outsiders. Because I know that if smartphones and YouTube had existed in 2004 that I would have been the first actor to ever win an Oscar for an internet video, and that I would now be starring in highly acclaimed blockbusters with Hugh Jackman, instead of what I’m currently doing in my free time, which is starring in an off-Broadway Pig Latin musical called “Les Iserablesmay”.

And it’s not because of the disparity in our income. Sure, you made $30 million dollars last year, which, if you include assets from birthday and Christmas gifts, is $29,998,273 more than me. But, I quite enjoyed basking in the riches of your chateau before you kept changing the security code and forgetting to tell me, or before your security guards grabbed the butter knife out of my hand and yelled at me for being an “obsessed lunatic” and told me to “get out of here before we call the police.” They must have been new, and did not recognize me from the macaroni art I made of myself and hung above your fireplace. I was just in the kitchen making you a sandwich, Taylor. Because that’s what kind of guy I am. (This may not be the right time, but as a side note, you are all out of peanut butter.)

Seriously, how did they not recognize me?

  

Heck, it’s not even because your hair shines more majestically than mine or that you are a foot taller than me when you wear heels. No, none of these things mattered, and, in fact, I found them endearing, at least when they weren’t igniting crippling waves of jealousy.

What it all boils down to is that, well…you’ve changed. And I’m not saying it’s for the worse, although if it were for the better one would have to assume I wouldn’t be leaving. It’s just that in the beginning you were so full of real-worldedness and down-to-earthitude. We used to stay up all night talking about Romeo and Juliet and how hard it was being fifteen years old. I mean, they might not have been actual conversations so much as they were me falling asleep by myself while hugging my iPod, but I know those songs were meant for me. But now…now our conversations have grown tiresome, and I feel our connection waning. It’s just hard to relate to you now. Crashing Kennedy family yacht parties? Hanging out with One Direction? Forgiving Kanye West!? I’m just a simple marketing professional with a revolving grasp on reality, Taylor. And I’m afraid that the simple Tennessee girl whose heart I was guaranteed from a surprisingly expensive back alley voodoo priest is gone forever – lost to the glitz and glam of Hollywood. Well today I am deeding you back your heart, Taylor, and you can give it to the Justin Bieber of your choosing.

I would like to arrange a meeting with you to exchange our belongings. I’ll take back the aforementioned macaroni portrait of myself, along with the scarf I gave you last Valentine’s that I knitted out of my beard trimmings. And you can have the collection of your used q-tips that you probably didn’t know I had and the book of letters you wrote me titled “Taylor’s Diary: Do Not Read!”.

I am sorry things didn’t work out, but I should really not be surprised. Innocence and optimism are often qualities of youth, and age tends to kill those charms. And although our lives have taken us in different directions, it doesn’t mean that our paths won’t converge again. I’ll think of you every time I turn on the radio, if you promise to think of me every time you hear bushes rustling outside of your window.

To paraphrase myself quoting Johnnycakes referencing Robert Frost – “Stay Gold, Taylor”.

Sincerely,

Nathan