The Great Gatsby-A Rampage

***This was written after watching the 2013 film on May 22nd, 2013, around 10pm. It’s a little long, but this is what I felt and what I wrote. ***

I don’t know what I’m doing right now. This could turn on or turn off my ardor for writing, all in one night. All because of one man. Gatsby.

Not even a real man. Yet I don’t know what to do. I’m texting my boyfriend and trying to sort these unchartered feelings but it doesn’t seem to be helping. It’s such a weird feeling. I’m thankful for today’s technology because I’ve been backspacing a lot; just think if I had to write on a typewriter. I’d be dead now.

It’s such a weird feeling. I’ve been pacing and nervous and burdened by the wrath of a million emotions. Trying to sort out all these emotions, initiated by the complexity of the Great Gatsby, feels. It feels. It feels a lot. But some sort of adrenaline, some sort of burst in my veins that cannot be quelled has charged forth, and as many mistakes as I may make, I have to try to sort it out, get it out because otherwise I will be stuck in this state forever.

I have the strange feeling I’ve been in this state before. Something close to helplessness, with a little grief, a little wonder, a little or a lot of disgust, and an immense amount of restlessness. I feel like running. Running back to Gatsby.

Would I try to change anything that happened to him? Hard to say. The immensity of the feelings generated by every event in the movie was incredible. Apart from the unfortunate rap music at the beginning of the movie, it was perfect. It was ugly and terrible and wonderful, but completely perfect. It hurt, but it was still perfect.

It made me have the itch to write because of Nick Carroway, who was in the sanitarium after his escapade with the Gatsby. I guess I need to act like him and try to write to cleanse myself of these overpowering emotions. Hopefully I can look back on this as something wonderful as well.

Maybe I want to write now, forever, because of Nick. I want to get the lives of those around me on paper. I want to get my life on paper. Shall I continue to write in a journal, or will I compose in the style of Gatsby, with lots of prose and insight, sticking to the main issues and events without crumpling the pages with morose details.

I don’t know (that seems to be a reoccurring theme). Both styles appeal to me.

I’ve realized that I haven’t even touched on the events of the night yet, or tried to manage these feelings. I’m glad to be writing again.

So we went to the movies. By we, I mean me, Dana and Tessa. Sometimes I love them, yest sometimes I feel so ostracized. Like they aren’t who I want them to be. Not personality wise, but they don’t symbolize the correct ideal I was hoping for.

Honestly I don’t even know if I can remember everything. But I’ll try. The start was so-so, with lots of unrealistic depictions of the jazz age and, as I mentioned, the less than refreshing induction of rap music into the decade.

One of the themes of the film that stood out was the selfishness of people and their preoccupation with their own lives. This has been haunting me for a long time in my own life as well. For example, after the argument in the plaza in New York that concludes with Daisy rushing out of the room, with a Gatsby who had just lost his temper to what’s his face, the jerk dude, whose name I have completely forgotten. I think it’s something short. Tom. I think it’s Tom. Buchannan. If Microsoft Word knows the correct spelling.

Anyway, Nick announces that he just remembered it’s his birthday, and he is essentially brushed off. I suppose considering the immensity of the prior events, his announcement seems irrelevant. To me, at that moment, it represented what I feared so much in my life: that no one would care. Not really care.

Everyone is so caught up in themselves all the time. They pretend to care, and momentarily take interest in the concerns of others. But we are all captivated with our own beings, all voluntarily trapped within a bubble of selfishness. We are all so narcissistic, and perhaps what makes Gatsby so special is that he broke from that mold. He was called corrupt, but his only goal was an incorruptible dream of being with what he saw as the most perfect being in the universe, whom he altered his destiny for.

Gatsby is absolutely one of the best, most complex characters ever. I’ve been obsessed with this movie for a long time. As much as I’ve spit out in the last few minutes, I feel like I could go on forever. I need to stop, but I don’t know if I can. My needs and wants are completely skewed at the moment.

After seeing this movie, I wanted to punch a wall. I’m not sure why. Was it the old feeling I had after watching the original movie with my class in 9th grade, where I was simply horrified that Gatsby, the only honest man in the entire gang, was…what was he at the end of the movie? Degraded? Shamed?

The tragedy is he died a happy man, because he thought that Daisy called him to tell him she was ready to run away. But that was not the case. What happened when he got to heaven? Would he see what had happened?

Oh dear I’m returning to the conversation with my boyfriend last night. What if heaven is emptiness disguised with happiness? A lack of knowledge that takes away the humanity of a soul and renders it emotionless, except to feel good? I’ve always been afraid that in heaven there won’t be any of the emotions on earth, which I desire. I covet knowledge of sad events, and to be shunned from these will not be my heaven.

I don’t feel like going into that. It will only depress me.

The real subject I can’t get over is the character of Gatsby. He was so giving and hopeful, yet so disillusioned and obsessed to his own point of selfishness, that Daisy had to tell Tom that she didn’t love him, and that she only loved him.

My heart broke with his when she said that she also loved Tom while she loved him, because I have had experiences with that, with both me being the lover and being one of the two loved. It’s an…interesting? No, not interesting. Notwithstanding my understanding of his pain, I couldn’t help but feel that he had become selfish and ridiculous.

It’s not an interesting experience, being in this situation. I don’t know how to describe it. A writer who can’t describe something is worthless.

I don’t understand why some things need to be explained. Feelings are feelings, and I can’t describe every feel. I used to be afraid that I can’t do that, and that simple fact was holding me back from my full potential as an exceptional writer. But now I embrace this inability to express the deepness of human emotions. Some things you simply feel. There is no way to describe it. And we must accept this.

I suppose we must accept a lot of things. Gatsby couldn’t. He could not realize that the past cannot be repeated. What we’ve lost, we cannot regain. I’ve also struggled with this. Similar to Gatsby, I have an obsession with the past. Have, had, have, will have, it doesn’t matter. The future is a scary thing.

In fact, I’m already obsessing over the idea of simply replaying the Great Gatsby films over and over and over again. Escapism. It works only for a short while, like a drug. It gives you an intense high, but the effects eventually wear off, and you’re left lower than ever.

Is the solution to accept reality? I’m not sure. Gatsby didn’t, and he was an intense, complex, hopeful soul who died happy, though his death was sticky and, as his life was, complex. Inconceivable. Irreconcilable.

Conversely, the other characters-Daisy, Tom, even Jordan- accepted reality and the deception that accompanies it. They became twisted and selfish, rendering themselves despicable characters but, in the end, quite unharmed. Which way is proper? Which way is better?

I wonder if I’m all out of juice for right now. I suppose I can read over and see if there is anything missing from this rampage. I can say that I at least hope I’ve calmed down enough to sleep. Perhaps I can better discuss and separate my emotions tomorrow, after having some times to settle down and take in the images I’ve imprinted into my being.

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