gatsby

In life, we find ourselves, not in a sea, but a river. A river that constantly ebbs forwards, with a force powerful, a force that pulls us forward relentlessly. 

We find ourselves clinging to the past, unable to flow with time. We find ourselves clinging to the rocks, fixed forever in the past as time floats us by. 

In that 9th grade class, I couldn’t quite understand the efficacy of those words that concluded Gatsby - “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

And so we beat on, borne back ceaselessly into the past. In my version, we cling to the rocks. We stay put - I’m stuck in this space - people, things, time itself move past me ceaselessly, and I’m stuck here, beating against the current, wistfully looking behind me. 

A fear of uncertainty keeps me there. The past hurts, bears holes through my chest, grinds the skin on my arms raw as they’re pulled back and forth against the cliffs of this river. The past stings my eyes - but at least it’s known. 

At least I can come to expect the burns, come to expect the pain and at least, at the very least, I can take solace in the consistency of the pain. Wouldn’t that be better than being borne ceaseless forward into the unknown? At least here, there will be no new pain. At least here, I can come to love the pain, 

the familiarity of it. Who knows what I’ll find down the river? I don’t care to know. 

What if we could remove ourselves, pull ourselves from our bodies, and see the paths we could travel down? 

What if we knew what was to come? 

Would I then stay here? 

Would I let myself continue to be consumed by the pain I’ve come to expect? 

Conditional theories apply, cost-benefit analyses would answer the question. The path of least resistance is the one I’d take. And I’d stay if it’s safest here. 

But no. 

The truth is that I wouldn’t leave until it’s time. Until I’m ready to let go of the pain. 

I can’t let go of it because it’s too much. It’s too big and if I let go, there’ll be too much gone. 

If I let go of this rock, I won’t know what to do with my hands. 

It wouldn’t matter even if I knew what was next. It wouldn’t matter even if I let myself be taken over by river, letting the ebb move my arms as it wanted. 

I wouldn’t be able to do it. 

Not until I was ready. 

Go numb until I can’t feel. 

100 $ bills