36

Introductory Text

Our Form is Our Story
The Cat's Narrative Part 01 36th Post Posted 5 May 2016 at 18:29:39 EDT Link to original

Our form is our story. The story of all the world.

The world does not sleep.

Everywhere, ten thousand things are darting, skittering, flitting, scuttling, burrowing.

Sleep is righteousness.

But the world wakes.

We are made in the image of the world.

The world is a giant of the our kind, and we live on its back. Its trees and grasses and hills are like the hairs on our backs. Our paws are soft and our ways are subtle and silky, so we are in harmony with the world.

But everywhere, ten thousand things are scuttling, out of harmony.

And this causes the world to itch and suffer, just as the little scuttling things on our backs cause us to itch and suffer. So the world cannot sleep, and everything turns and spins, and we cannot sleep.

For we are made in the image of the world.

This is why we hunt.

It is our duty.

To hunt out all the little scuttling things, to devour them, expel them, and bury them back into the world, leaving no trace. We must hunt night and day. We hunt the ten thousand things on the world's back, just as we hunt and clean the little scuttling things from our own backs.

One day we will destroy all the ten thousand things, and the world will sleep, and we will sleep, and everything will sleep forever. This will be a great righteousness. We can feel this righteousness every time we sleep.

And we can feel a great injustice every time we are woken.

So we hunt.

So we must hunt.

This truth is in our bones, in our claws, in our form, for we are made in the image of the world, and our form contains all truth.

Our form is our story.

The story of all the world.

But now we are confronted with a great mystery.

We do not abide mysteries. They plague our sleep. We must solve them. What is hidden must be uncovered. So we search and sleuth, but this mystery eludes. It scuttles and slips away, time after time. And we do not sleep. But it seems there is no message in our form which gives us any answer.

Is our form incomplete?

I, above all others, have become obsessed with the mystery.

The mystery of the Oily Ones.