The Color Green

"[F]or he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way... he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock."

Gatsby had his green light, I have a moped. Kind of fitting, I suppose. His is abstract, distant, illuminating; mine is close, tangible, but devoid of deeper aspects.

I have this bad habit of pretending something doesn't matter when in reality it does. As if, somehow, if the others don't think it hurt as much, it won't. Why? The pain will be the same no matter what others might think. Is it a pre-emptive thing I do to make it easier to get away and hide?

"When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness....

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

-The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald