Gatsby's Sorrow

 

“In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice. “Always try to see the best in people” he would say. As a consequence, I’m reserved to hold all judgements. But even I have a limit.” 

-Nick Carraway

The commotion brings a sort of haze to the ears. Fills the vacant space with the guise of euphoric, drunken, and nonsensical grandeur. The type of sound one would only hear on holiday with family or friends in the late evening. I hold these every week throughout the weekend, and they all appear, sheep to shepherd; herds devoted to the thrills of the life that I present them. They flock to the castle, and I pamper them in endless luxury, yet I never see, to catch the eye of the one I truly want to waltz through my weekly enigmas. That’s when he moved next door, the key to the lock that I had been trying to pick with a bobby pin. Nick Carraway, an amiable and eloquent man, fresh to the life we are so ill of living. The only enticement I could offer was an invitation, yet that was enough to herd him through the door. As fireworks aided the scenery of my reveal, I smiled at him in a way that only I could. We grew up as friends swiftly, a drive down the block later, I told him why I desired his aid. As the story goes:

I. When I tell you that I’ve been looking for him for half of my life would you believe me? Our city is cut into un-neat portions like a birthday cake, old sport. It all tastes sweet on the tongue, then sneaks a cancer into the lips like a kiss laced with cyanide.

II. We are but cogs in a greater machine, built on the foundation of lies and deceit. Selfish wishes granted through a soul exchange, what we gain in luxury is often sullied in morals and obligations towards a loss in humanity.

III. So what do we have left, old sport? We have love. We have time to hold those who we need close. The only vibrancy we hold dear in armoured arms is the only thing we can ever truly project. And thus, the only thing we should.

IV. He is everything that I could ever need. All of this money that clutters the pockets doesn’t fulfill the sensation of fulfilment. Rather it leaves you empty, old sport. We can toil, and tumble through the endless sea on a yacht. High on the fault lines, we inhale so often.

V. But when you find your destiny, no money could ever replace it.

VI. It clouds your mind of judgement, or reason or necessity.

VII. It invades your foundation, like termites, chewing away at the weak ends of weekends, at the intersection between greatness and satisfaction.

VIII. The stop lights all turn green and our two drifters crash under the moonlight on a river iced over.

IX. I’ve been chasing that greenlight for a decade, old sport. If not for the mist, we could see him across the bay. A burning green star that taunts me from a separate dock. At times it feels like, if I reach far enough, I could grasp it in my palms. Catching lightning in a bottle, an energy unfit to be handheld by mankind. I have everything, except him, old sport. Things rearrange and we miss what is no longer the same. Separation often teaches us to appreciate what we lose in the most painful of ways. Like hugging a spring rain, warm and short-lived. The embrace slides down from the fingertips in short sequences. Falling from the apex to the ground, constantly running away from us. We can try our best to capture what has fallen out but often what we end up with feels lukewarm. The sensation of wet skin feels sullied, our clothing becomes damp from the after-effects. Overtime, it dries, taking flight within the air to some far-off place, an anxious traveller. He is the cloud I want to glide upon, old sport. The thunderstorm I want to embrace, yet I do not know how to fly. It's not an ability I can buy monetarily. It is something that is given through love and heartache.

X. If I can just, get back to the star...

I can find it again.

I can just let myself go.

And let him rain down upon me once more.

Written and Illustrated

By Ashley Ann Joy

2nd year, B.A. Psychology Honours