The incandescent light with which the moon burned that night was ethereal, inspiring, flawless in its grace. As Nick watched the bay, the silver globe reflected across the shifting water, dancing effortlessly upon the waves, its glory only interrupted by the intrusion by the glaring golden light flooding from the broken street lamp in front of Nick's cottage.
Nick walked up to the light from his place on his porch, moving as if to knock it from its lofty height, but stayed his hand. He sighed, and stared up at the pretentious glory that was the house of Gatsby and the pink lights streaming out from the gaping maw of His windows, threatening to swallow Nick whole. Perhaps, Nick thought, he would be better off, if he was eaten, rather than this torturous half-state of his current existence.
Nick sat down on the parched grass of his yard and rubbed his hand on the ruined greens, watching as an ash flew into the air, only to be pulled in a swirling series of arcs to Gatsby's yard, by, Nick mused, the sheer gravity of the Man's home, and the Man himself. Nick was certainly pulled by it, and, tonight of all nights, he was not immune to that call. Indeed, to stay at his little house, to miss the riotous party that was most definitely ensuing, was an strange act, even for the odd duck of the eccentric West Egg.
Nick, however, felt that his actions were justified, for wasn't Gatsby famous for not participating in His own festivities? Wasn't He so lost in the past that He was incapable of enjoying the present? Nick felt some sort of kinship with Gatsby, then, for acting the way he did, even only in this one small act. God knows that he couldn't emulate the Man in any other way.
Still, the pull to see Gatsby again was immense, as it always was, but Nick had his fined-honed (but tempestuous) will for this purpose. While the stars of the Eggs flocked to Gatsby's pull, Nick's orbit was far wider in his strongest moments but, ultimately, elliptical in shape. Nick could be strong, but he could be weak. Very, very weak.
Nick let out a broken laugh. Yes, he was weak. So very, very weak. He was a broken man chasing a broken dream that was held together by tortured ropes, and he was reaching the tearing point. Nick despised himself for even contemplating his true desire for this, for this gorgeous, brilliant Man that was not a man, was never a Man.
Nick couldn't feel this for merely a man, after all. Surely one person can't make someone feel this much.
Nick laid his head down and cried.