Jay Gatsby (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
likepalegold) wrote2013-10-31 07:40 pm
likepalegold) wrote2013-10-31 07:40 pm
(no subject)
The light grows brighter as Jay Gatsby turns away from this moment and begins to understand that this is a striking pivotal point and nothing will ever be the same again. The absent scattering of autumn leaves scratches along the stone paving, but even that is a world away. Sinking, he's sinking, and there may not be a way up for him. And yet, that too is a world away.
Jay Gatsby is a self-made man in control of his own destiny, but he stands on a spot of land he doesn't recognize, clutching his dripping chest to ease the hurt of a wound he didn't plan. His life, his whole life, had been the accumulation of riches achieved in the pursuit of a dream; a dream he's unwilling to abandon because his blooming flower gleams and glows as brightly as the summer they met. Distantly, he hears the shrill cry of the phone and he thinks ...
Daisy.
He thinks of Daisy the way he's thought of her for years. Every dollar, every fabric in his closet, every square inch of his floors accompany thoughts of Daisy Buchanan, but the phone's cry begins to dim down, growing quiet as the hush blankets him and brings with it a wave of uncertainty.
His fingers tap against his beating heart. He eases his hand away, but there's no wound. Numb, Gatsby stands there with the ghost of cool water haunting him and chilling his fingers and toes until they're blue and still, he thinks of Daisy. The blood had bloomed, but not like her. The water had claimed him, but delivered him to this new whirligig as though God above has insisted that his life is not over, that Jay Gatsby's destiny is not done. He is far from complete and yet he is without direction for the first time in his life.
His life, so often full up of rumors, now affords him possibilities the likes of which he has never dreamed. For a man so preoccupied with his past, it's now his future that calls his attention forward.
Jay Gatsby is a self-made man in control of his own destiny, but he stands on a spot of land he doesn't recognize, clutching his dripping chest to ease the hurt of a wound he didn't plan. His life, his whole life, had been the accumulation of riches achieved in the pursuit of a dream; a dream he's unwilling to abandon because his blooming flower gleams and glows as brightly as the summer they met. Distantly, he hears the shrill cry of the phone and he thinks ...
Daisy.
He thinks of Daisy the way he's thought of her for years. Every dollar, every fabric in his closet, every square inch of his floors accompany thoughts of Daisy Buchanan, but the phone's cry begins to dim down, growing quiet as the hush blankets him and brings with it a wave of uncertainty.
His fingers tap against his beating heart. He eases his hand away, but there's no wound. Numb, Gatsby stands there with the ghost of cool water haunting him and chilling his fingers and toes until they're blue and still, he thinks of Daisy. The blood had bloomed, but not like her. The water had claimed him, but delivered him to this new whirligig as though God above has insisted that his life is not over, that Jay Gatsby's destiny is not done. He is far from complete and yet he is without direction for the first time in his life.
His life, so often full up of rumors, now affords him possibilities the likes of which he has never dreamed. For a man so preoccupied with his past, it's now his future that calls his attention forward.