James Gatz
Just finished watching The Great Gatsby, probably only my second time watching the remake...
it hit me differently being the same age as Gatsby was in the story,
and having all the same hope and optimism for the future.
it's not that we want to be fictional characters,
it's that they're written in such a way to make them relatable to us,
so that we identify with them,
with their struggle,
because it mirrors our own.
the green light at the end of the dock,
writing as therapy,
a release,
sometimes fantasy can help us in reality.
if i wrote about memories it might be depressing,
but if i wrote about the future it feels like this page might stay blank forever.
but here i am in the present, doing it, right now.
words on screen. here there are, actualized.
except i'm not.
thoughts of "if anyone ever read this they'd think i have terrible grammar" distilled down to "but no really, i can write proper if i try"
but have I ever really?
that's the metaphor, the green light in the mist that you can only make out when you reach out.
except my metaphor is a dream of Her and a dimly lit computer screen and each keystroke is my reach exceeding my grasp.
fucking wicked still,
i'll never give up. that optimism has to stay with me, if not then what else do i have?
i'll never give up,
tell people they can still be astronauts or president.
it doesn't fucking matter, reignite that fire in my bones till i bleed ash,
reloaded shooting stars,
make a wish but it's only to wish for a make.
my goals may never actualize like these words will but i have to keep trying.
there's no other way, what else would there be? i won't accept anything less than my destiny and only i can achieve it.
stuck between gaslighting myself and getting shut down instead of shut eye.
these memories haunt me like the ghosts of deleted journal entries and all the confessions i was too cowardly to confess.
in a beautiful way, Gatsby still inspires me to write long after it inspired me to start.
no matter how i break down from the break ups,
or how i feel misused when i miss you,
i still reach out to that green light.
the closer you get the further it moves,
like a rainbow you can't quite catch,
but the feelings stick in your throat when you try to utter "i love you" to the one person you do,
words frozen in time like breath frozen in air,
you see her eyes cascade from a kaleidoscope,
the butterflies in your stomach get dizzy from sinking,
hold her face in your hand and hope she understands.
the true depths of passion can't be summarized or quantified,
that's what the film conveyed and what i will spend the rest of my life trying to.
every letter in this letter is a desperate attempt to make someone, anyone, understand how it feels. the inverse of empathy, you just want someone else to finally know.
thought it would be her but she never gave you a thought at all.
tell yourself that's life but it isn't much of one either,
always just know.
whatever it means.
"i make love lie."
tell yourself this is it, try to get a breath of fresh (desp)air,
try to force a double entendre because you can't find meaning in anything.
so concerned with how you're perceived you forget to look within yourself.
i know it. i know where my light is,
i know where that spark comes from.
it's deep within the recesses of my soul,
what i call my heart.
what scientists call an emergent property of a collection of neurons and synapses forming neural pathways that form "us"
what I call my heart.
what she calls Herself.
"She has to tell him she never loved him, old sport."
it hit me differently being the same age as Gatsby was in the story,
and having all the same hope and optimism for the future.
it's not that we want to be fictional characters,
it's that they're written in such a way to make them relatable to us,
so that we identify with them,
with their struggle,
because it mirrors our own.
the green light at the end of the dock,
writing as therapy,
a release,
sometimes fantasy can help us in reality.
if i wrote about memories it might be depressing,
but if i wrote about the future it feels like this page might stay blank forever.
but here i am in the present, doing it, right now.
words on screen. here there are, actualized.
except i'm not.
thoughts of "if anyone ever read this they'd think i have terrible grammar" distilled down to "but no really, i can write proper if i try"
but have I ever really?
that's the metaphor, the green light in the mist that you can only make out when you reach out.
except my metaphor is a dream of Her and a dimly lit computer screen and each keystroke is my reach exceeding my grasp.
fucking wicked still,
i'll never give up. that optimism has to stay with me, if not then what else do i have?
i'll never give up,
tell people they can still be astronauts or president.
it doesn't fucking matter, reignite that fire in my bones till i bleed ash,
reloaded shooting stars,
make a wish but it's only to wish for a make.
my goals may never actualize like these words will but i have to keep trying.
there's no other way, what else would there be? i won't accept anything less than my destiny and only i can achieve it.
stuck between gaslighting myself and getting shut down instead of shut eye.
these memories haunt me like the ghosts of deleted journal entries and all the confessions i was too cowardly to confess.
in a beautiful way, Gatsby still inspires me to write long after it inspired me to start.
no matter how i break down from the break ups,
or how i feel misused when i miss you,
i still reach out to that green light.
the closer you get the further it moves,
like a rainbow you can't quite catch,
but the feelings stick in your throat when you try to utter "i love you" to the one person you do,
words frozen in time like breath frozen in air,
you see her eyes cascade from a kaleidoscope,
the butterflies in your stomach get dizzy from sinking,
hold her face in your hand and hope she understands.
the true depths of passion can't be summarized or quantified,
that's what the film conveyed and what i will spend the rest of my life trying to.
every letter in this letter is a desperate attempt to make someone, anyone, understand how it feels. the inverse of empathy, you just want someone else to finally know.
thought it would be her but she never gave you a thought at all.
tell yourself that's life but it isn't much of one either,
always just know.
whatever it means.
"i make love lie."
tell yourself this is it, try to get a breath of fresh (desp)air,
try to force a double entendre because you can't find meaning in anything.
so concerned with how you're perceived you forget to look within yourself.
i know it. i know where my light is,
i know where that spark comes from.
it's deep within the recesses of my soul,
what i call my heart.
what scientists call an emergent property of a collection of neurons and synapses forming neural pathways that form "us"
what I call my heart.
what she calls Herself.
"She has to tell him she never loved him, old sport."