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These days, I do not think of Gatsby much. I do think of him, and while his ghastly presence does follow me—constantly—it does not nag at me. It does not scratch and scab at the confines of my mortal mind and remind me of his every misdeed and misfortune.
And yet, I remember.
Upon our first proper meeting, I’d always supposed that Gatsby was an angel among the dull, brightening our undeserving lives while we stumbled across insignificant problems that life threw upon us. Now, I know that he was a fallen angel; he, while incandescent, had just as many disgraces as everyone else.
And yet, I feel a familiar, bitter anger well up within me at the apathy of the world. Where were his weeping girls, veiled in black? Where were the candles to send him off to Heaven? Why was the world not drenched in chilly water, somber over the death of one so precious, so beloved? If not by his guests, then by me, his friend?
Was he really worth so little?
I find it hard to comprehend that such a man could give so much and deserve so much but receive barely more than a coffin upon his death.
And yet, I find myself attracted to the memories of the luxuriously extravagant parties Gatsby threw. What a shame, I mused, and what irony it is that he should die alone. If anything, it is simply evidence of the undeniable: no man can control how he dies, and the ones that do control such—the Fates that cut the strings of life short? Why, they barely give what is due, what is proper.
I never believed in ghosts before him, and I still do not, if only because I realize now that the ones that haunt me are the ones I made myself.
I craft his ghost as a blacksmith would a sword: with precision and guilt. First comes his easy grin, bedazzling as a green light in the cloudless night sky—always unobtainable yet beautiful all the same. Around that forms his face, relaxed and effortlessly handsome. After, the rest of his body comes easily, except when it doesn’t: sometimes he floats around, but other times, he is opaque and stands firm on the floor, a mannequin shell of the man I once knew.
But when all else fades away, his smile lingers like that of the Cheshire Cat’s.
On the days when it is too much, I don’t move. I don’t eat or sleep or act in any way that one should; instead, I am stuck, swimming in golden honey, stagnant. My thoughts become muddy, fogging up my consciousness like my breath upon a silver mirror.
On those days, I wish Gatsby had not left me behind, in a world devoid of his laughter.