Nekomimi Lisa (lisagoddess) wrote,
Nekomimi Lisa

The snow started falling in swirls and by the time I exited the trainstation in Brooklyn, heavy flurries swirled around me. Me and everyone else. Newspaper boxes and cars. And lampposts. White flakes glittering like the twinkle of a kitty soul. And with this thought, I felt cheesy and lame, but real. I lost a cat. Not a dog or a sister or father. Not a human friend or aquaintance. Just a cat. It's some sort of shame to be a catlady. And I am not. But I cant help it. I cant help ruminating on imagination: that in the core of every flake is a little precious piece of Ifrit soul. Fragile. Impermanent. Our lives and his life. The Earth... and perhaps even the all has a final day. Final hours. Final seconds before a deep breath and submission to numbness.

I thought that I might write a poem. About endings and beginnings. about feeling surrounded by my kitty and "love" in that tornado of snow. and then suddenly surrounded by if by channeling a dead cat, I'd dug that tunnel to the very core of everything. A car nearly hit me as I walked, absorbed the beauty around me... knowing secretly that the tunnel to the well of souls didnt exist, but that somewhere along the way, peace did. Somewhere.

These are not new thoughts. Not for me or anyone else. But it's as close as I come to spirituality- those moments when I feel as if I could reach out and touch everything all at once, hold it in my palms, and quite possibly understand it. It's so close, all around, but Im enclosed, as if the thinnest layer of clear space keeps me from contacting any of it. As if I and the universe are magnets with the same pole opposing each other when we get too close. I dont believe in an afterlife, per se, of individual consciousnesses. And I sincerely hope that what "soul" one is left with after stroking out for 6 hours isn't all we leave with to return to whatever lingers beyond the human brain's cognitive capabilities. And somewhere deep, I dread that I am only the electrical impulses and chemical catalysts that make me, and when they stop firing and flowing, I stop existing. I dread it. But I often think this last idea is really and truly the way things are...and that magnetic opposition is not really opposition, but me reaching into the space, the vacuum in my head that extends across the universe--searching, hoping to finally touch something tanglible. but there's nothing. nothing there at all.

Ifrit, Im sorry I lied to you about heaven. You and I both know it doesn't exist. But if it did, it would have been tonight: a snowly and swirling beautiful walk home from the train. Just you and me.

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