Cats and Conscience
I haven’t done this in a while, unplanned prose, just to think. I haven’t forced myself to think in a long time. Instead, I’ve been pretending I’m too busy with work and school In general, I haven’t written in a while. Writing forces me to deal with my sins and acknowledge all my lies. Do I confess them now, with my pen? The page will be my priest and these four walls surrounding me will shrink and be a private wooden box, from which I can leave afterwards and pretend my confession didn’t effect me. And I don’t think it ever has. My conscience hasn’t challenged me since I was a child. I joke that I’m Naoya, a devil incarnate of Cain. I can kill my brother and then challenge my father with the question: “Am I my brother’s keeper?”. When I was a small child, and my cat was just a kitten. I put my palm in front of her face and wrapped my fingers around her skull; fascinated. My mother looked at me, “What are you doing?”. I told her, her head is so small. So is my hand, but I feel like I could crush it. Her ears were pulled back, but she didn’t seem scared and per purring didn’t cease. -WPS-