So I went digging out my classics and revisited “The Great Gatsby”, my all-time favourite. And this time, was the 4th time I reading it. Each time I flipped to the last page, different feelings came to me, each time only deeper. This time I cried. Cried, for Jay Gatsby. His presense just exudes this sense of peace and serenity. So vague and surreal that even when he was gone, I felt his existence. Perhaps Gatsby never existed in West Egg, in that gaudy mansion with those extravagant weekly parties, he himself was a fantasy. Fantasies are meant to be felt, not seen. Tragic. This sense of emptiness just overwhelmed me. His death was truly the means to all ends. But his groundless death is totally unjustified. More so when his sole existence proved to be so vague. I don’t know, everything seemed to resolve, after his death. Daisy with Tom, Wilson’s suicide after shooting Gatsby, Nick back home. Resolved in an involuntary way. Daisy and Tom were not meant to be together. Gatsby did not kill Tom’s mistress, aka, Wilson’s wife, Myrtle, Daisy did. Tom ought to be shot, instead of Gatsby, for Myrtle’s death. Gatsby re-creation of Daisy’s love was unfortunately unreciprocated. Tom destroyed all links and ties to humanity.

I just have this thing for anti-heros, like another case with Dorian Grey. The picture of Dorian Grey. Gatsby did nothing. He was in fact some sort of a catalyst. Things happen around him, without him lifting a finger. But the ultimate finale destroyed him, for once, things happened to him, in a tragic and erroneous way. I never believed in his existence, nor in his death. What I saw was just the currents that ebbed and flowed accordinly to his command, for everything returned to the introduction after his death. Nick went back home, Tom and Daisy clean of affairs, Wilson and Myrtle dead. An end is just a prelude to the begining, just that we do not know it at that time.

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