I saw a cat almost get killed, and stray thoughts entered my mind
It was hungry and softly purring through eyes that popped out with fear and longing. The day was fair and airy as the cars rushed by and made debris dance in a whirlwind. This was our second encounter and somehow the wretchedness of the moment was still hard to bear
We stared at each other as the background noise continued to vibrate. And then suddenly off it went!
Into the streets — racing against time — and challenging the nine lives that apparently have a limit. He was now a vulnerable creature — playing the deadly game of Russian Roulette — all in an effort to get to the other side.
It’s better there. It doesn’t seem like much, but it sure beats the prickly weeds — and the stubbly maze underneath the abandoned car — that provides hurried protection.
The depleted feline jumped from the heels of powered tires, that almost squashed its withering template. He rushed back to me. Scared and defeated and with the gloom of exhausted disillusionment.
The bus pulled up before I could eye him goodbye — with the quiet scolding of a transfixed spectator — that wants to save the day, but can’t, because there’s just so much to do.
The hard seat near the window forced me to tilt in a way that would allow the black tail to be the last thing I see. And then came the thoughts — pummeling my consciousness.
How are men violating women in a fit of misplaced anger because the roads aren’t wide enough to contain more than one ego? “Road rage” is now the preferred term for the eradication of young women who believe in Allah or belong to a race that’s considered expendable.
I ponder how utterly irresponsible it is to label an over-stuffed narcissist with the tragic symptoms of a spoiled brat — “mentally ill.” This casual usage of a condition that renders its victims woefully incapacitated — helps to fuel the misguided assumptions that are heaped on the societally vulnerable.
Donald Trump is capable of restraint, but would prefer to extend his ‘White male privilege” to the max — by relying on the support of the elite who are envious of how much fun he’s having at their expense.
They secretly wish they could be that lawfully disastrous without the downer of a guilty conscious.
I wonder how the youth of today under the guidance of Instagram’s Best Hits — and the over-priced tackiness of gods and goddesses — can fathom a collective that does honest work away from the spotlight— for the great reward of personal fulfillment.
This has zero to do with millionaires, millions of followers or the brands that deprive you of tangible nourishment.
The cat that ran into traffic — only to return — hungrier and perplexed than ever — gave me chills for the gamble he took to get to that better place.
He will never punk out — and the only way I will get the memo is when his flattened remains glisten in the sun — as I cross over to the side that takes me nowhere, but allows me the space to decide where exactly I need to go.
What are we doing here — and why don’t we spend enough time pouring through the options? The gadgets that were designed for easier access and an increase in sociability — have only served as hideous diversions that turn us into ceremonial creatures of extremely bad habits.
I mean, Al Sharpton took a fucking selfie and posted it as if his actions wouldn’t convey the miscalculated antics of a supposed highly respected official — who has no business begging for the wrong kind of attention.
I need to visit my cat and visually exclaim that those daily risks may kill him eventually — but at least he’s willing to die for something. He’s able to muster enough strength to appear in my presence and taunt me with his disposition.
I have no control over how my head grinds the task of scrolling up and down pages — bumping into heightened timelines — that spend 24/7 celebrating the ring worms that shift with the clicks and shares.
We share everything except the things that add character — and protect us from hiring assholes with nothing too lose — and everything to gain in their quest to symbolize the everlasting practice of human pollution.
When I see that wilting animal — we will figure this shit out together. We can do it. We’re both calculating strays — and as you know, numbers don’t lie.