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Lazy bastards. Cats. All they do is sprawl out in shafts of sunlight like they own the world—because, in some unspeakable, infuriating way, they do. It’s not envy, not exactly. More like reluctant reverence. I watch them with their slow blinks and casual disregard for everything that demands urgency in a human life, and I think: God, let me be that next time.
If there’s an afterlife—if this universe owes us any justice at all—I want out of this skin. Reincarnate me. Strip me of ambition and anxiety, of the gnawing hunger to matter. Make me a cat in someone’s backyard, basking in dandelions and overgrown grass, twitching my tail at passing dragonflies like I’ve got all the time in the world. Let me roll on warm concrete, belly exposed in the ultimate act of trust, purring not out of contentment but as a declaration of territory.
Not even the grandest visions of heaven could tempt me otherwise. Give me this one small, feral freedom. There’s a kind of holiness in the way cats move—aloof and unimpressed by gods or mortals—that makes me wonder if they’re the only creatures who got life right. And maybe, deep down, I don’t want eternal peace or salvation. Maybe I just want to nap in a sunbeam without anyone needing anything from me.
Let the next life be small. Let it be simple. Let it be feline.
If there’s an afterlife—if this universe owes us any justice at all—I want out of this skin. Reincarnate me. Strip me of ambition and anxiety, of the gnawing hunger to matter. Make me a cat in someone’s backyard, basking in dandelions and overgrown grass, twitching my tail at passing dragonflies like I’ve got all the time in the world. Let me roll on warm concrete, belly exposed in the ultimate act of trust, purring not out of contentment but as a declaration of territory.
Not even the grandest visions of heaven could tempt me otherwise. Give me this one small, feral freedom. There’s a kind of holiness in the way cats move—aloof and unimpressed by gods or mortals—that makes me wonder if they’re the only creatures who got life right. And maybe, deep down, I don’t want eternal peace or salvation. Maybe I just want to nap in a sunbeam without anyone needing anything from me.
Let the next life be small. Let it be simple. Let it be feline.
May 29, 2025
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🐆I told him someday he’ll find a nice woman, settle down; she’ll be happy to bear his children, she’ll cook for him, unthinkingly defer to him—and she’ll probably do it with a smile.
He told me: I’m the only good influence you’ve ever had.
I told him: you thought you wanted this exotic pet but what you really wanted was a housecat, something simple and soft to touch that would curl up beside you. He told me: all I want is just something that doesn’t walk around destroying things and shitting on the floor.
I’ve been pacing back and forth in this cage for as long as I can remember—hungry—and despite my best efforts, I often snap at his fingers wiggling at me through the bars.
He told me: I’m the only good influence you’ve ever had.
I told him: you thought you wanted this exotic pet but what you really wanted was a housecat, something simple and soft to touch that would curl up beside you. He told me: all I want is just something that doesn’t walk around destroying things and shitting on the floor.
I’ve been pacing back and forth in this cage for as long as I can remember—hungry—and despite my best efforts, I often snap at his fingers wiggling at me through the bars.
Feb 21, 2025
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i’ve never had a cat before and decided to adopt one this year. it took a long time for him to trust me since he was living on the street for the entire 5 month of his life, but eventually he grew to trust me and would take naps on top of me as i binge watched movies.
i’ve always believed that to add value to your life, you need to be productive. i mean that’s how it is living in a capitalist society right? if you’re not working, you’re wasting your time. if you’re not commodifying your hobbies, you’re wasting your time.
but watching this kitten sleep all day changed my entire perspective on life somehow. i no longer feel bad about just relaxing and doing things i love (rotting in bed, watching movies while crocheting lol)
anyways i know this also comes down to privilege, and im v grateful i have my basic needs met. but doing the things you love and taking the time to relax is also a form of resistance in a society that loves to work people to death.
and ofc, here is a picture of the cat. his name is junji :D
i’ve always believed that to add value to your life, you need to be productive. i mean that’s how it is living in a capitalist society right? if you’re not working, you’re wasting your time. if you’re not commodifying your hobbies, you’re wasting your time.
but watching this kitten sleep all day changed my entire perspective on life somehow. i no longer feel bad about just relaxing and doing things i love (rotting in bed, watching movies while crocheting lol)
anyways i know this also comes down to privilege, and im v grateful i have my basic needs met. but doing the things you love and taking the time to relax is also a form of resistance in a society that loves to work people to death.
and ofc, here is a picture of the cat. his name is junji :D
Jan 21, 2025
Rec
🐈i was born to be aloof and lay down all day… if past lives are real i was definitely a cat in most of them
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For a man who follows his heart can never be weak. That’s what I used to believe, once, before the bodies piled up like autumn leaves, and belief curdled into something thinner than blood.
I caught the whistle player once, a man stitched together by calluses and riddles. His tune wasn’t music; it was a wound dressed in melody. It scraped something raw inside me. A song of mystery, yes, but also of cruelty, a tune without mercy. When I asked him how he knew such things, he only laughed. Said the desert had taught him.
Said that Mother Gaia, if she ever existed, didn’t whisper. She screamed. Through the grains of sand, she dragged him down, ankle-first, bone-deep, until he touched her molten heart. Said he came back remade, not better, just aware.
"Men," he spat, as if the word itself offended him, "have always been the destroyers."
Not gods. Not fate. Not even history. Men.
And I realized then: this isn't about nations or borders or wars. It’s about the individual. The one who chooses to light the match. The one who watches the blaze.
It is the gender.
It is the myth we wrote in our own image, thinking ourselves gods, when all we ever were, are, was ruin.
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I knew this love of mine was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleeps, but the kind that floats, listless and unmoored, like a feather dislodged in a storm. It drifted upward, aimless, circling, caught in the breath of things that once felt steady: laughter, warmth, the scent of jasmine from my grandmother’s porch before the war of illness took her away. Joyful people are rarely light. The ones who care the most often carry the heaviest sorrow, but they smile, because someone has to.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
Rec
Last night, I dreamed, though I can’t tell you what of, not exactly. There were fragments. A lawn, half-mown, or cats, dozens of them, maybe. Their shapes flicker now at the edge of memory, insubstantial. That’s how it always goes. I dream every night, I know this, but each one slips through my fingers by morning, evaporating like steam before I can grasp it.
It wasn’t always this way. As a child, I kept a dream journal. Religious about it. Woke up, wrote it down. And something about that changed me. Sharpened the recall, made dreams more solid. Realer. And then, over time, something turned. Now they vanish even faster. Like the act of remembering too hard wore out the muscle.
I’ve thought about starting again. Journaling. Documenting. Not just the dreams, but the moments around them, the texture of waking, the taste of forgetting. Because vivid dreams begin with remembering, don’t they?
But I hate recollection. The way it drags old feelings back up, stale and bitter. The way it stains the present with shadows of things that never happened. There’s something foul in remembering too much.
Still. Maybe I’ll try.
It wasn’t always this way. As a child, I kept a dream journal. Religious about it. Woke up, wrote it down. And something about that changed me. Sharpened the recall, made dreams more solid. Realer. And then, over time, something turned. Now they vanish even faster. Like the act of remembering too hard wore out the muscle.
I’ve thought about starting again. Journaling. Documenting. Not just the dreams, but the moments around them, the texture of waking, the taste of forgetting. Because vivid dreams begin with remembering, don’t they?
But I hate recollection. The way it drags old feelings back up, stale and bitter. The way it stains the present with shadows of things that never happened. There’s something foul in remembering too much.
Still. Maybe I’ll try.