Nothing Ever Happens

Looking at the as-yet titled works, the fiberglass sculptures, the acrylic drawings, the colored pencil and envelope sketches, I started to wonder at what exact moment did the child die within me.

During dinner, I interrupted a conversation about post-graduation plans. To please the parents, one senior set himself upon the elaborate scheme of applying to graduate school though that is not what he aspires to. When I asked him the typical follow-up of ’so, what do you want to do?’ he equivocated so pleasurably that I almost hated myself for telling him he was equivocating. ‘I would do nothing ,’ he said, after my many persistent interruptions. ‘ Nothing at all.’ His quiet eyes and sheepish demeanor belied a seriousness I was ashamed of interrogating.

But what is nothing?