Pain is on the way out now. in anticlimatic

I think I might rename this cat “Rubber Band.” No matter how often I toss it away, it springs right back in my lap- often climbing my bare flesh with its claws to do so. A younger me might have cussed at it and put it in timeout, but time seems to have softened my reactions. Somewhere I acquired that surprising revelation– that most of the things which hurt us typically don’t intend it. How much energy have I wasted on misplaced indignation and tightly coiled rants? The way of nature, so logical under the teenage sun, can’t seem to find its legs in the face of the way of grace; the chaos moon. Patient. Swallowing. More cat than kitten. It lays bare the meaninglessness of dusty daylight emergencies, which in turn incline immediate forgetfulness of all the shapes in the stars the night prior.

I miss my other cat. The Cat, she preferred to be called. Nobody I ever really knew, but someone who once knew me. Like a proper predator. Perhaps it’s just the reverie we shared that I miss. The teenage moon. When the night exposed not dry meaninglessness, but rather all the meaning that could be.