The Bluestocking 2022-23

i look for my cat and i pick him up. he goes limp in my arms and lets me carry him to my room, where he sleeps every night. he is soft and warm, like a fuzzy portable heater brought to life. and yet, i feel as if philosophical dilemmas are what make life worth living. is human ness not to be found in the wanderings of life and desires for wisdom? is value not to be found in the melodrama of man that comes with the experience of consciousness? beauty would never exist if it were not being beholden, and the capacity to behold is a privilege above all else. adoring my cat and writing about him is what feels most real, and that ability to feel is truth.

he purrs, and the sound rumbles my bed ever so slightly. it soothes my soul.

sometimes, i catch him staring at me as he sits in his designated spot in my room. he looks at me as if he wishes he could speak, and i wonder if he has curiosities about me, or if he even has the capacity to wonder. does he desire? does he want? can he adore in the way i do? perhaps the desire to redeem ourselves from our sins and consequently escape human consciousness has the same end goal as the desire to be as unknowing, unaware, and ignorant as my cat.

i look back at him.

i think he gets it.

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