Enigma.

Huddled and trapped, my knees against my chin and my arms around my shins, I listened to the sounds of familiar people scream and cry. I could hear the whoosh of air that hurtled past the bodies as they were thrown and wrapped around poles and trash cans and goal posts. They screamed, they cried, they begged and they pleaded, but this chaos ensued for minutes longer.

I know it’s cliché to say that people proclaim that you see your whole life flash before your eyes in the situations of death, but—like most other people—I’m here to tell you that that’s nothing more than a load of bullshit. You don’t see white lights, you don’t see your joys and regrets, you don’t see your loved ones’ faces, you don’t hear the Halleluiah chorus. Your eyesight doesn’t change, your hearing doesn’t change, and you don’t find peace within the world.

I waited for angels to serenade me as they carried me away. I waited for Izzy and Matson and Mom and Dad and even my cat’s face to surround me in the bunched space of the concession stand. I waited for all of my greatest regrets and strongest joys to bounce through my gaze, making me understand and find meaning in my soon-to-be death. I waited for the long black tunnel to turn bright and blinding as I finally rounded the end and found the stairs to heaven.

I waited, and waited, and waited, and I waited some more after that. But, after five minutes of waiting and hoping and wishing and even praying, the truth finally dawned on me: God just really doesn’t give a shit.