So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. This is, of course, what F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, about age and fame and love and wisdom and trying to push ahead and fight, for yourself, for what you believe in, what you want to believe in, for the new. He was young enough to be resigned and old enough to be ambivalent. And there it is again, in the last sentence of “The Great Gatsby”, this sentiment of a promise being taken away. But whose fault is it? Who is to blame? Nobody*s. Your*s. So try to move, try to get to the shore, to get to the sea, there might be currents and waterfalls, but you want to go there, so you row, you row, because you feel it, the rift, and you have to forge ahead just to keep your pride. So you continue. Despite it all.