He ambled through the field as the vagabond that he was without her,
her absence draining him of all of which he was capable,
each possibility in his life now a withered rose whose black petals wilt, faded from the cardiac crimson with which they once bloomed. 

Either dawn or dusk it was that time when the world seems empty but for a soft blue light
everything shadowless,
everyone at rest.
He continued towards the elusive green light which emanated from just inside the opening of the forest at the close of the field.

Finally he was nearing the light towards which he had been wending his way for some time. 
But now his steps were punctuated with pain,
stepping on shards of broken hope pricking his skin, his surety
bleeding with doubt,
the light now seemed lacklustre, perhaps better admired at a distance,
destined to be part of a cocktail of pain.

And so at last, he stopped. He had reached the end of the field as night fell.
As he reached his closure, he looked up at his now starless sky. 
Death reached out for his hand, letting the cold take him,
the light extinguished itself. 

Jay was at last in peace. 

Halfway through The Great Gatsby and I already feel so goddamn bad for him. He spends 5 years alone, throwing frivolous parties for people he doesn’t even know which he most of the time doesn’t fully take part in all with the hope that she will turn up, spending so much time trying to lure her in that he builds up a picture of a woman so perfect she is beyond possibility. He realises that attaining her is something so wholly ‘unperfect’. He exists but in his lonely quest for her and it is really sad to watch him be so consumed by it all knowing it will never fulfil his hopes. 

The guy just needs a hug.