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Today, as the rain was tapping on my window, I gazed out at the storm clouds casting shadows onto the long green fields of spring. As I was enjoying as the grass and the leaves in the trees on the horizon sway with the wind, my mind was recalled to a time that I have actually been attempting to hide away for a long while now.
Practically precisely 5 years ago, under the specific very same rain and grey, that Gatsby fellow was eliminated.
He was killed. Rain and grey, I tell you. His life was taken by one Mr Wilson with a gun. Right in his pool, too! He died floating on the intense blue water of the lavish swimming pool in his back garden. Now the weather condition was not the exact same rain and grey … however the sensation that consumed me after I learnt of his unexpected death. That sensation. That was precisely what one would call, “rain and grey.
Since that day 5 years earlier, I have not spoken a word of that Gatsby. I did not attend his funeral service. I did not speak of him with my husband, Tom. I have not composed nor uttered a singled word of his existence till this really diary entry. I have not externally interacted anything in concerns to Gatsby … but oh, how I’ve considered him. I’ve thought many things of that Gatsby. I’ve thought, that perhaps … just maybe … if we hadn’t broken contact all those years ago before we reunited, we may still be gladly investing our days and nights together.
I have actually believed that maybe if Mr Wilson hadn’t searched for such a terrible end to his life, or any premature end to his life at all, I would have selected Gatsby over Tom in time. I’ve considered fantasy picnics at the park, of dinners in that old, abundant and magnificent house of his. I have actually thought of taken kisses and long hugs. I have actually thought about all the important things I had liked, and still love, and Gatsby. In trying to suppress any step of a fond memory of him, I’ve actively thought of all the bothersome, irksome yet insignificant practices or mannerisms that Gatsby used.
Time and time again, I’ve tried to rid my mind completely of Jay Gatsby, I swear, I’ve tried to keep my mind and heart focused solely on my loving husband, Tom… but I just simply cannot manage to get Gatsby out of my mind and thoughts. For so many years, he has been invading my thoughts and quiet moments in the garden, at breakfast, while resting… even during the thick of a fantastic plot of an astounding book. For so many years, I’ve been trying to make Gatsby disappear from my mind. But in fact, I can’t just can’t keep him out of my thoughts… I just had to write this entry in my diary for I needed an outlet to express my thoughts.
In a way, I feel as though I am being unfaithful to Tom. Now certainly, I am not sleeping around. I am bound physically to Tom, by all means. But for all intents and purposes, I am emotionally and spiritually bound to Gatsby yet. As I lie in bed at night, warm and comforted in my husband’s arms, I can’t help but let my mind’s train of thoughts travel and drift over to that Gatsby! Because of this, terrible guilt and conflict overcomes me. I thought that by now, I would be over him. I thought that his memories would be dead and gone, just as he is. But still I imagine and believe somewhere in my mind that someday he might show up at my house now… He’ll say that everything was just a big mistake and that he was never shot. He’ll be older and that age will look good on him. He’ll tell me of all the things he’s done in these five years.
And it would be undeniable, even to Tom, that one person in particular keeps showing up in my life no matter where I go must be of some sort of significance. And after he’d tell me of all of his travels and adventures, he’d ask me to go away with him… And I’ll say yes. That is why I feel unfaithful to Tom. Because if given the choice, I would choose another man.
I suppose there is not much I can do to take back those thoughts, or those dreams, or though fantasies. There is not much to do but to simply continue on pretending I’m devoted to Tom. I’ve always said that the best type of girl in this world is the girl who is a beautiful little fool. Beautiful little fools seem to be exempt from the laws and rules of this cruel world.
A beautiful little fool can volunteer wits and intelligence for survival. That’s what I’ve done for nearly my entire life. From time to time, though… I miss having intelligent conversations with my peers and my family. Oh, well… I’ve done it for years and I can do if for longer.
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