text: My mother died when I was nine. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this now, today. Not that I’ve never thought about this before. It’s just that nothing happened today. I woke up. I sat on the couch for an hour. I checked my mailbox around noon: nothing. I watched the clouds roll by to the droning of the television. I’m not even sure what it was that was on. Some game show or other shit program that advertises false happiness for free. I’m so fed up with wealth being the only source of happiness that’s feasible anymore. But everyone thinks that, don’t they? I can’t even be original with my angst. Not that I was original in anything I’ve done thus far with my life. See, my mother died when I was nine. I’ve already said that, but the point is I never quite came to terms with it. I woke up in September, and she was dead. Car accident. Not that the cause is really important. The end result is always the same. And like I said, I never really dealt with this. I was nine. What nine year old can comprehend death? What third grader can grasp the idea that their mother stopped living? She’s gone, they told me. She’s in heaven. I remember looking up the directions to heaven that night. Why did she go, and not bring me? When is she coming home? Mommy is never coming home, they said. Well, never is a long time. Never hasn’t come and gone yet, not for me. And see, I struggled with this concept for a long time. And as a nine year old trying to come to grips with his and everyone else’s mortality, I wasn’t very fun to be around. I grew up with no real friends, just people I talked to on occasion. That kid in the back of the class that everyone whispered about and avoided in the halls? That was me. My father tried to help, at least. He tried to get me interested in sports. He’d take me outside to throw a football. I pretended to be interested. I tried really hard to be enthusiastic about something, anything. But really, what was the point? We all live; we all die. It’s a useless cycle of oxygen exchanged with carbon dioxide. Eventually we all become food for trees. Apathy had a stranglehold, and it wasn’t letting go. I tried therapy. They told me I was depressed, so I tried antidepressants. They just made me anxious. I tried writing, but I was never any good. Everything came out stiff. I tried learning an instrument but my fingers never moved the way I wanted them to. Eventually even my father gave up on me. So forgive me if I don’t believe you when you say you care. When your father gives up you, you’re at the bottom. That’s really just it. And what’s sad, what is so fucking pathetic, is that none of this is unique. Do you know how many assholes have lived this same life? This apathy isn’t original, it’s cliché. I’m just a sad speck in the spectrum of grey nothingness that is the universe. And today, nothing happened. I woke up; I lived; I sighed; I gave up. My dog hasn’t even looked at me today. Aren’t dogs supposed to sense emotions and respond appropriately? Maybe it’s because I’m not sad. I’m not angry. I’m not anything. I just am. I exist. Who cares? Not my dog, not my father; not my mother, that’s for damn sure. So the sun set today, like it has every day in history, and I sat down at my desk. This time I’m not writing for catharsis. I’m not writing to get better. I’m writing so you understand why. And tomorrow the sun is going to rise. Just like today, the day that nothing happened. Just like that day in September when I was nine and my mother was dead. And tomorrow, something might happen, just not for me.