Yeah, I'm a little kooky. I'm also a little disillusioned with overanalyzation of good literature. Stupid underpaid English teachers.

Marginalia in an American Classic

We write in symbols but
do not mean it when the
words first appear newborn
on the page. We write of
real things and objects but
people always treat them
as manifestations of "our
symbolism" as if we wrote
small flutters of consequence.
Which we haven't, ever.

Fitzgerald wrote in colors,
he wrote of Gatsby's green-
tinted dreams and Daisy's
pristine white glow which Of
Course symbolizes something,
but can anyone deny her the
right to wear white, or the
dock light its choice of color?
As if it had a choice.
As if Fitzgerald had a choice.

I write in words, mere words
that no one really wants to
understand, it seems. The
clocks tick in syncopation and
no matter how redeemed
I think I am they will go on like
this for eternity, unwary of my
plans for self-actualization, or
the lucky few who succeed.
The words still remain babies.

Another one bites the dust.