Cat Revision of String Theory
(It’s a bit of a yarn. A tall tail. Outside the box. Skinner’s and Shroedinger’s)
They say that dreams are self-contrived:
Mine are the eight lives I have survived.
I still chase my tail, and I don’t care how it seems-
I’ve faced trial by fire, in those dreams!
Consciousness, so far from thoughts
Controlled so carefully, these plots
Are rows of six foot holes, then mounds,
Unsettled, quaking, shaky grounds.
Conception smiths our coded bits,
The feeble fetus forms, forgets,
And learns to follow lesser desires,
Repress the surging inner fires.
They say it’s silly that I feel feline;
That there is madness burning in my mind.
Curiosity kills, they advise…
I’m just biding my time- counterclockwise.
Human is just a shape I chanced to wear
When the feral kitten left its astral lair.
I still want to follow those creatures with wings,
Who aren’t held to ground by theories with strings.
Tick-tock, talk about time, future, past,
Divining our answers on devices, forecast
To swindle us out of living with purpose,
By promising us happiness can be purchased.
I don’t buy in, I’d rather fall to bones,
Trampled by masses as they rush to cast stones,
Judging, demanding we slave, struggle, pay.
Life is a big ball of yarn. I must play…