Dear Gatsby

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Dear Gatsby,

Remember me?  One of your “old sports” from West Egg… It’s been a few years since you died, but I find myself remembering you and your life.  I hope you liked the eulogy I delivered for you several years ago… I’m sorry I haven’t written to you, but if it’s any consolation, I’ve written about you.  I think I’ll title it the “The Great Gatsby.”  You know, looking back on everything, I hate you.  I hate how you changed my life.  How you sacrificed everything for the sake of getting Daisy back.  Daisy… my cousin… the fake “beautiful fool,” the one who knows everything that’s going on, the sadness of her fickleness, yet feigns ignorance.  Huh, funny, everyone we’ve ever met in the Eggs, everyone in New York, heck everyone in the entire world is like that…  Why are we so different?

You were the only one I’ve ever known who had the courage to stay– stay true to one thing, stay true to yourself, the only one to keep caring when no one else cares.  Old sport, we saw that at your funeral.  You cared and you got burned.  I cared about you and I got burned.  Funny, we care.  We hang onto the past…  Well, I guess I should say that you “hung” onto the past.  Disregarding that, we are the ones getting hurt.  Us, the human beings in the 1920s who care about something.  I, the truth.  You, Daisy.

I’ve learned that as hard as I strive to look out of all the windows, to purge the bias within… I can’t.  I keep remembering you, your enthusiasm, your hope.  Hope.  I lost almost all of my hope when you lost your life.  Some days I wake up feeling like this trip, the parties you threw, the ghosts of you and Daisy reuniting at my home on that fateful rainy day, the fatal yellow missile that hit Myrtle driven by Daisy, your death, Wilson’s death, and your funeral was just a dream… no, it wasn’t a dream, it was all a nightmare.  The only dream was meeting you, the only person who cared about something, not everything.  Finding someone in life who wasn’t blinded by greed for money and power.   To me, your existence was a dream.  Your life was a nightmare.  You died trying to achieve your dreams.  Myrtle, Wilson, and I are just the collateral damage.

I will write a novel in the memory of your existence and your dream.  The all-American Dream brought on by hope.  My only hope left in life is that my novel will bring people to care.  To care about your existence.  To care about the damages and harm of caring.  To care about the harm not caring brings.  The ignorance and fickleness of American society.  Funny.  Daisy sped up the car and killed Myrtle, a poor, but deranged woman trying to crawl out of the Valley of Ashes overlooked by the gold-rimmed glasses and critical eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg.  And Wilson killed you, the man trying to bring back the past.

Once my hope of writing about your legacy is fulfilled, I will have no purpose in life.  I broke things off with Jordan because despite her perceptiveness, she doesn’t hang onto the past like we do.  Like you did.  I would like you to know, I shed a few tears at your funeral.  I hope someone cares enough in the future to shed tears about our story.  Your story.  Your dreams.

This may be the last letter I end up writing.

Until we meet again, Old Sport,

Nick Carraway

Fin.

Cheshire Cat.

A/N: Hey guys, sorry, that was kind of, sort of, very depressing.  After we analyzed The Great Gatsby (it was my third time reading it), I tried putting myself in Nick’s shoes.  To see Gatsby how Nick saw him.  Everyone from the novel just seemed so… hollow… so without purpose… sad…  So this is the brain child of my thoughts.  After what Nick wrote and all the relationships he broke off following Gatsby’s death, I just couldn’t bring myself to find something that Nick would care about anymore, so my “somewhat of a fanfiction” ended in implicit death…

The picture above is a combination of PicMonkey effects, a green circle, and the water/black background by Deviantart user rzv93.

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