Apathy, like a virus worming its way through cells. It gets in and makes nothing appealing. It wins. It is floating, moving along the surface. It no longer feels the urge to push. It no longer cares. Some would call it depression, but there is no pain in it. Depression connotes pain. Depression is drowning while apathy floats. Apathy is flatter, something not angry. Depression has anger and vile, venom and spit. Apathy is a pool of water on oil; it sits there, not even holding itself, simply roosting, waiting for nothing.
A pathos. Pathos with an added vowel that takes it away. Add the a, the pathos leaves.
Somewhere in my belly if I turn towards certain things I notice a place where apathy has not moved in. It could, given the right set of circumstances. There are a handful of things that still know pathos, that still know rage, that still know love. Give them time and the a will turn them around, help them float.