Dreamers do lie...
The sun cast the room in a pink glow, staining everything within the fading light's grasp. The corners of the room housed wilting plants, untended since they'd been thrust upon the homestead. The dying rays barely served to keep the night's curtain at bay. If one were to look out the large living room window Nick could tell them what they'd see.
Gatsby was already at his post, had been for the last hour if memory served. It worked like clockwork. The eccentric man would go and hold vigil at the same spot, staring longingly at that dull, flickering green light that would probably always be just beyond his reach. However, Gatsby liked to dream. He was probably nothing without those dreams, nothing more than some shell of a man. They were what gave him life, he ran on them. Yet, somehow, that's what made this so bittersweet.
My cousin is a fickle creature. I have no doubt she loves Gatsby, somewhere in her ever-changing heart, but she has never been one to put fancy above her own concern. Like the flower she was named after she only turns toward the brightest, most exuberant shade of gleaming gold in existence. Beauty, intelligence, longevity, they all mean nothing to a silly flower. She just wants who ever can burn the hottest, and Gatsby was always so cool.
I can only sigh and shake my head, unable or unwilling to turn away from that silhouette of a man. Stock-still against the barrage of reality and wind. I can only look on in wonder and admiration. Such a strong man with such a fragile heart. Though all men possess those I suppose. Wasn't that why women allegedly had such tender hands? Were they not made to cradle the easily broken hearts of men? If I thought that at all once it's gone now. Tender hands amount to nothing without the will to protect or the strength to do so, and women are such fickle things. Easily drawn away from their own bobbles when they spot something shinier over in the distance. Unworthy of the trust given to them.
I could have done it better. Petty, and foolish of me I suppose, comparing myself to Daisy. In his eyes no one could have ever held the easily impressed crystal of his heart. However, I would have guarded it a little fiercely. I wouldn't have just waited until his smile faded from my sight to drop it and leave the shards for him to find upon his return. That would have been foolish, traitorous, and cruel beyond imagination. Though that is what she has become hasn't it? Maybe it wasn't even a matter of becoming. Maybe my kin had always held such flaws and I, through ignorance or blatant disregard, managed to keep from noticing her many faults. They're all too clear now. Her reckless disregard held for anything other than herself.
I can only sigh, leaning against the cool glance of the window and watch as night enfolds Gatsby in her mysteries. A fitting sight truly. He may long for the flower of full sun but Gatsby looked so much better against the cool, dark sky with stars faintly twinkling in the background and the moon casting its pale light upon the earth. His figure melds and cuts into the horizon, gently illuminated as he stares almost unwaveringly at that cursed green light.
It's unfair. All of it really. Unneeded death and unwanted hurt, lost in the sea of glamour and riches that cover tragedy with their glimmer. What's more unfair is I'm far too like what I used to think Daisy was, but never alike enough to that standard for Jay. That's what this had become about. Misplaced desire and longing. Daisy turned to Tom, Tom who burned brighter and fiercer than anyone I've ever known. Gatsby was far from being a sun, soft and driven; he always seemed to be dreaming of something better. Gatsby was the moon, and while some flowers only bloomed in the soft luminescence of the moon, daisies weren't one of them. Nevertheless, I was. Had become one at any rate.
Don't misjudge me, I still hated the man for what he had sacrificed to be what he was now. I hate the man who spawned himself simply for the sake of her. Perhaps because it was all for her and not me. At any rate, love came coupled with that hate. Two emotions too intertwined for me to give one without the other. I'm not sure when the hate changed either. It was no longer just about him, but about me as well. I certainly never asked to fall for a man. Least of all the great Gatsby. The very Gatsby who built an empire in shame to woo my cousin. My cousin who will never return the affections like I would have. I, Nick, who would never voice my feelings because in doing so I would become more and less than I am. Hope would fill my heart despite my wishes and then shatter me when rejection was voiced.
In some sad way I had become him. Emulated a man I longed for and wishing I was able to pull of the masquerade so well. I would forever be reaching for the silhouette of Gatsby in the pale light as he grasped at the fragments of the green light, both of us all too aware that Daisy was clinging to her sun. Perking slightly, I watch with rapt fascination as his shoulders sag and he turns to make his slow way back to the mansion he called his own. Reluctantly I too moved from my perch. Tomorrow the silent vigils would commence once more. It was no longer just him that ran on clockwork, no longer just him that wanted something so exquisite and broken that owning it was impossible and quite possibly a sin. Gatsby told me once you could always recreate the past, but dreamers do lie…