“Every man dies. Not every man really lives.” - William Wallace

My eyes skimmed the quote section in the New York Times. You, sir, are more right than you will ever know, I assured Mr. Wallace. After all, I’m not dead. Beating heart - check. Lungs sipping oxygen in like delicious ambrosia - check. Functioning brain - check. Yes, I am most definitely alive. Physically, at least.

Mentally? Emotionally? Now, that’s another story. Here I am, stuck at a dead-end job. No goals, no aspirations, no hope. What’s the point in living when you have nothing to live for? A vegetable-brained wife, her noggin fried by the bottle that is glued to her lips. Two misbehaving children, destined for the jail cell. Even my old dog drags himself through our two bedroom apartment. Not even the bright lights of the Manhattan skyline can poke a pep in his step.

You know, it wasn’t always like this. I had Ivy League dreams. I possesed dashing good looks, then sagged and beaten by the cold, non-prevailing winds of time. I had love. Her blue eyes were sharp and clear: precise, yet melting with adoration for my whole essence. They were blue, blue, blue. The kind of blue that you could sink into and love and feel safe in though they mirrored crashing waves. She was mine, and I was hers. Just two pairs of eyes: one murky brown, one flawless blue. Now her eyes are glazed over by the relentless clutch of the devil’s drink.

So, I drag on. Not really dead, not really alive. Just there. Work starts at eight. Lunch is at twelve. Go home at five. My life is ruled by the ticking of the clock. Not by events or kisses or tears or laughs. Just the never ceasing tick-tick-tock. My heart beats and my lungs breathe, but am I alive? That, now, is a resounding negative.