The waves crashed against the shore with a muffled roar, only to be washed back into the depths of the ocean. I looked up past the gate to see Gatsby's mansion. What once held lavish parties full of music and laughter was now a place of quiet abandonment. Even though eight years had passed, the house was still unoccupied. No one wanted to live in a home where an ominous character like Gatsby had been murdered. It was a shame, really. The house was once so beautiful, but now it was only a ruin, a shadow of its past self. As I quietly kept to my thoughts, a cool breeze ruffled my coat. Not wanting to disturb Gatsby's home any longer, I pulled myself away from his property and walked on.
I was paying New York a visit to remind myself that the past was real, and that Gatsby truly had existed. Just because he was out of my life just as quickly as he was introduced, did not mean that he hadn't been in my life at all. My time spent in the East was much too chaotic, which was why I took the opportunity to move back to Minnesota. I missed the relaxed atmosphere of my childhood home. Moving back was the best thing for myself that I could have done; while I learned a lot about life from my time in New York, I realized that there was really no place better for me than the Middle West.
And so I said my last goodbye to The City That Never Sleeps.
