Disclaimer: I do not own anything from The Great Gatsby.
The Man in Glasses
It was truly a shame, that a man such as he, so vibrant and full of life, now lies dead in a wooden box six feet underground. When he was alive he was constantly surrounded by people, all talking and laughing. Now, though, there are only a few solemn faces left. None of those fake fools that used to crowd into his house and across his vast front lawn are here now, when their presence would truly matter.
I, myself, never really knew Gatsby. I had wandered into one of his parties during the summer and had found myself engrossed in his astonishing collection of books. Somehow that summer, I managed to find myself back in his library several more times. His parties lasted through the night until the morning sun kissed the horizon with its warm light and made the waves that beat at his beach sparkle as though filled with bits of glass.
I've always felt somewhat sorry for myself. Perhaps that's why I kept making my way to Gatsby's to get drunk off the wine and the boisterous untamed energy that the constant stream of guests gave off. I think that I liked to imagine, once I was drunk enough, that it was my party that all these people, the new elite of society, found themselves at. I imagined myself at the center of all this wealth and glory that Gatsby commanded. Yet, now at this near empty cemetery, I wonder if it wasn't Gatsby who was truly worse off.
Although I have no large stash of money hidden away in some bank vault and no lavish house filled with expensive items that, by themselves, were worth a fortune, I did have a family and friends that I knew I could depend upon. In the recent months I had begun to drift from them. I unknowingly allowed myself to be seduced by avarice and had nearly fallen out of contact with my friends. Now, though, standing by his gravestone, I felt the sudden urge to reconnect and go back home to visit my family. Maybe I would stay awhile, get a job, get married...I don't know.
I turned away and began to walk. Silently, as I left the cemetery, I said goodbye. I said goodbye to the parties and the books. I said goodbye to the alcohol and the elites. I said goodbye to Gatsby, a man I never truly knew, but now wished that I had taken just a little bit of time to get to know. Strangely, the world seemed a colder place without the warmth of the lights that had always lit his garden like so many fireflies. Shivering, I pulled my coat a little closer and drove away.