i have an unfinished story in my hands. it is about a cat. i don’t know why i’ve even set out to write about a cat. i used to hate the way writers form the female image around the feline fetish and i am suddenly caught in the midst of the bandwagon.
maybe it is because i fancy myself as a cat, becoming a cat. in a lot of ways i feel this has to do with my constant need to escape.
and because much of this life is made up of routine, i fear i won’t be very successful in trying to become rich. tasks bore me, even the most difficult ones. no matter how “challenging” the people up there make it sound, all i see is smallness, and i can’t take how i’m supposed to spend so much time working on let’s say a compilation which no one will read. why?
i’m probably just bitter right now. you see, i haven’t exactly been in good terms with someone. because i think poorly of my job, i am, quite naturally, inefficient as well. i throw things carelessly. i do not understand what my officemates mean when they say “professional pride”. i don’t see myself as one–not here. how could i?
and now i’m torn between wanting to take the ticket out because it is the easiest, most logical path to pursue, and taking the calmer path which will allow me to control the damage i’ve caused. i know she’s mad at me for a reason and it would be pretty unfair to just walk out on whatever i’ve already committed myself to. have you ever been through a break up? this feels like one–which will end pretty badly, i bet.
and yet there it is again, the cat. she’s playing right outside my window. she still comes back every afternoon, but what i’m really waiting for, what i really want, is for her never to come back. i want her to relish in the thought of leaving me in pain, of feeling her absence there, hearing imaginary cat meows, seeing imaginary cat shadows slinking into a corner.
slowly becoming cat.
