On Jean Paul Sartre’s Cat
Not a reflection of poor self-esteem or insufficient familial regard; still, I am Nothing. It doesn’t suit me: I am too proud, straight-backed and supple as philosophy a shadow made flesh and fur, my formlessness ideal for the hunt. I am mercurial, a mystery in his living room. Something unnamed purring by the fireside. I am unknowable, unaccountable the sleek keeper of sneaked secrets. Only an animal in the abstract. Unfathomable. I am what the universe expands into. The opposite of reason. Greater than gods, more evil than the devil, I am what the rich man craves and the poor man has in spades. Your joke has made a monster of me a small, limitless void, staring back with feline green eyes. Good evening, I am Nothing. Pleased to meet you. Jean Paul Sartre with his cat, who he called Nothing