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Rated: 18+ · Non-fiction · Adult · #2034405
Have you ever watched a cat while it listened to thunder?
Have you ever watched a cat while it listened to thunder? Its sound tunnels perked, twitching with every tactless whisper from the sky- gossiping with the ground about the potential of rain clouds and death. But the cat fucking knows, IT CAN SENSE IT. Still, no shame is exhibited from up above, so the sky and earth’s muckraking take actual form. Their words plop down, cool in presence, grey and smelly with detachment.

I watch the cat dart inside right before the storm hits, because it knows and I know it knows and I know I could follow suit, but I don’t.

I want to stand up to the sky. That big fucking bully. That trash talker. That paranoia inducer. The madness driver. The coward that drops false tears on my shoulders to mock my own vulnerability, my mortality. My lack of ambition compared to its incomprehensible vision.

Clear or cloudy, it doesn’t matter. It’s vision will always be much greater than mine, for I will never be the sky.

I will never be the fucking saran wrap keeping the world intact.

I am just a wet girl admiring the heightened senses of a cat. I am just an iron rod for premature lightning to aim at.

And for whatever reason, none of these humiliating facts matter. I matter.

My life as a puny human matters.

I deserve more than a fucking raindrop. So do you. And the cat.

We are told to take the raindrops- to build a catchment so that we can harness the earth’s sheer power. But there are too many creatures on this planet and not enough space for all of us.

See, the problem with the catchment is that the rats shit in the gutters, flies and mosquitoes breed in them, and when we drink what we think we have cleverly manifested, we get sick and die.

We need help. We need cats to eat up all the rats and critters. But the problem with the cats is that they carry fleas. And the fleas bite until they leave rashes and barricade homes in our homes. Pests.

We need human intelligence and reliable resources. We need machines. But listen! The machines will smog up the atmosphere and piss off the sky, which in turn, will piss on us.

You see? We are dying of everything.

We are merely blind beggars, insistent on staying alive.

Well I won’t do that anymore. I won’t hide from the rainfall or the rat lung.

Like dirt-speckled diseases in a catchment, I will collect the things that move in me, until I no longer can.

The cat has the ability to detect significant yet subtle shifts surrounding it. It has a mission to stay dry.

The only mission I have is to forget my illusion of having a purpose.

It all works together then falls apart, it all works together then falls apart.

As the lid opens to pour some down on me, I fall apart and begin to sense what matters.
© Copyright 2015 S.T.A.B. (nikkiz at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2034405