This morning, yet again, I explore the world in which my cat lived.
Stopping there with all its ambiguity, I carefully place my full stop after toying with other endings, where the syntax of explaining repeats all my vacillating daydreams.
He could have lived longer; plain and simple. He could just have inhabited his good-healthed, middle age like the other cats continue to do.
He could have lived over this crisis, gaining satisfaction from past survival and fighting yet again like an endless hurdle race we ran together, stretching into eventual failure.
The world in which my cat lived was closing in. But it hadn’t closed down and still suppled us riches, though him increasingly bad days amongst the good. We shared of our reciprocal love in the small grey cloud of aura that we lived in together through habit of habitation.
The world in which my cat lived is drawn by placing round cat-like dots in sleeping places and tracking walks between with dotted lines, and augmenting; here is water, here he eats. Here he sits when he is hungry. He satellites if chicken is served… he liked boxes. A small, but complete matrix; now void.
This morning, I explore a heroic defiance against good sense that tapers in to a thinning wedge where, in one elusive world, my cat lived.
Tracing certainty within tragedy is difficult; I lose sleep and serenity trying to grasp its loose end.
aggiegoatmother 