Once I got to know Gatsby, I couldn't imagine why anybody wouldn't be lining up to be friends with him. He was loyal, passionate, rich, and just enjoyable to be around. That's why when Gatsby died, I was confused as to why there wasn't a huge crowd at his funeral, and why people kept saying negative things about him. Here was a man who threw marvelous parties every Saturday and didn't have a guest list, and yet all those people didn't even give him a second thought when he suddenly wasn't around anymore. I pictured myself living in Gatsby's big house, on every night expect Saturday. It must have been so quiet, mostly so alone. That big empty house with nobody to share it with. I continued to think not only what Gatsby's life was really like behind closed doors, but also about the meaning of life. Does money really buy happiness? How is popularity really defined if you can't even count your trustworthy friends on one hand? Is the world trying to attain this "American Dream" without knowing that it's not what is seems to be? With my mind racing with questions, I made the decision to go back to home. I didn't want to live like Gatsby anymore. I didn't want the money, the cars, the fancy clothes. I learned that all along I was perfectly content with my average life. Even though people may think the rich have it all, the life of wealth really is just overrated.
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