How odd it seems to me that a man would "crack" in the prime years of a person's life. What would cause such a turn of events? Yes, "all life is a process of breaking down," but is there also not the process of rebuilding? Throughout Fitzgerald's writing I felt as though he was a man who had given up on life. And perhaps he was; he died at the age of forty-four. He mentions that he has "weaned myself from all the things I used to love...they had become an effort." This made me think of the things I love in life: waking up in the morning all nice and warm tucked into my bed, petting a puppy, looking at the changing colors of the landscape, and talking with a good friend. Then I thought of how those things contrast with bad issues: my bare feet hitting the cold floor and chilling me, the sharp biting teeth of the unknowing puppy, the snow that will soon begin falling (causing accidents and freezing temperatures), and discussing issues that cause pain to a friendship and the heart. Yet, am I ready to crack? Shatter into a million pieces that I, nor a group of friends, could put back together? No, but their are still times when I'm dropped onto the floor and I feel weak points start to enter my life, and if dropped at just the right angle, I would shatter without hesitation.
I've shattered. But I've managed to paste myself back together through some miracle...
The cracks are still there as Fitzgerald tells us. Held together with a fake smile. Trained in such a fashion that others won't be able to recognize that we are damaged goods. Our fix-up job is so well done that we fit perfectly back on the shelve with undamaged goods - no one will ever know. We'll do the job we were designed for - serving other people even if we remain unappreciated for what we are. Damaged goods.
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