There’s beauty in blissful ignorance. A fragile safety that veils life. Living life in a mirage, full of hope and optimism, of a false certainty so confident it’s unshakeable. That’s what Gatsby had. That’s what I hope everyone holds. That’s what I never want.

It’s a curious thing, realizing that all the things, the screws and cogs, that seem to make life illusory and grand are all the things that you don’t want. To live under the delusional grandeur of life means to give up the elite awareness that makes people hard. The world is in my hand; and I breathe all those hard and heavy things. Yet, I would never trade it for a lifetime of wondrous, unadulterated, pure happiness. The irony is…I wished everyone else did.

Gatsby was full of hope, blinded by the past and unable to see, to be aware. I wouldn’t change Gatsby for the world. No. In fact, the world needs more Gatsby’s. He consumed by his passions. And to the very end, he held on hope. His life was never tragic; on the contrary, it was fantastical. It was a dream, because he made it so. If there is a tragedy, it’s that he never saw reality. But in my opinion, it’s of his great fortune, not misfortune. His life is only so sad, because we are aware. The all-knowing chorus watching, understanding. Oh, the irony.

My instinct is never to bring reality to the Gatsbys. Rather, I sit idly by. Words are unspoken. Knowledge not passed on. Being Gatsby isn’t sad. It’s not a bad thing. It means you were protected. You were blinded. You were blissful. Someone cared and loved enough to shield your softness from the cold hard world.

For most people, the quote ends at “And one fine morning”. But for some, the sentence continues, awareness is constant, “So we beat on, boats against the current, bourne back ceaselessly into the past.” And there’s a sadness there. A feeling of hard emptiness. But I could never give up the heaviness, the cool awareness that I haphazardly possess now.

I guess I’ve never been a big on happiness. At least not for me.