-Nick Carraway/F. Scott
My fluorescent lights are all flickering off I my room and I am finally allowing myself to fall asleep, after letting the five-year-old inside of me get distracted for the past few hours by whatever cancelled space opera television show is still silently streaming on my muted laptop. Three o’clock in the morning has become my normal college bedtime, a calculated stab at independence. It is not, by any means, a healthy form of parental and social rebellion, but only one that drains my energy.
Settling into the cushioned groove of my pillow, I find myself about to fall asleep only to be subconsciously distracted by the single, bright blue light of my printer’s power button, shining strongly into the empty blackness of my room, illuminating every dirt-speckled crevice, mischievously peeking into my twitching left eye.
It being so late at night (or early in the morning, whichever is preferred), I can’t seem to summon the energy to turn the damn thing off. All it would take is a simple push of the button, in order to quickly end whatever slight discomfort I may be experiencing. But with every passing second, I find myself less and less motivated to get out of the warm cocoon of sheets around me, tip-toe across the thinly carpeted floor, and turn off the light.
And while it’s probably laziness, I can’t help but think that there might be something else forcing me to hold back on my quest for an enveloping darkness. And, while this is all starting to sound very highfalutin, the surrounding blue light is almost peaceful and, if I strain my de-contacted eyes hard enough, it becomes a pinpoint spec in the far-off corner, a color-shifted Daisy’s dock that I can barely bring myself to go towards.
And so lying in my bed, waiting for the cold sleep of 3:47 now to take me, I become top-hatted Gatsby for a moment, floating silently in the carpeted sea, bed against the current, borne back sleeplessly into tomorrow.
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