The Crime of the Century: My Curiosity Killed Schrodinger’s Cheshire Cat
This is my confession. Think of me as Amy Dunne from Gone Girl, with cold eyes and calculated movements. Staring into the screen, breaking the fourth wall. Confessing to my crimes.
At the moment, I feel like her. Driven and uncaring. To be fair, she still had affection for Nick despite what he had done to her.
But in this case, the cat didn’t even do anything to me, which makes my crime infinitely worse.
In my defense, I was never sure that there was a cat in the first place.
Technically, there was a cat. In a certain sense. But to me, it wasn’t a cat. In that sense. Because it was just… A cat.
Anyway, whether the cat existed in that sense or not, I confess: I’ve killed it.
I was curious, and I found out, and I was faced with a choice. To choose or not to choose. To be or not to be. And my choice forced the cat to not be.
This will not make sense to anyone. Except for the cat that I am talking about. (And maybe other woodland creatures who know what the cat meant to me)
But dead cats can’t read. So, the cat will never know all this. Maybe one day, when enough time has passed and a certain undead cat is ready to read this kind of thing. Which it can’t. For now. Because it’s still dead.
Insert a transition here. I can’t think of transitions at the moment because all that is on my mind is the cat and my crime. I am so sorry for hurting the cat. I would like the cat to know that.
However, its reality consists of it either existing in that sense or not. My curiosity, and therefore the subsequent choice, determined the answer to that existential conundrum long ago.
No matter how much I apologize, the cat either is or isn’t.
And it isn’t (but maybe it was?), which means I killed it (or didn’t I?). And so, it will disappear.
I can still see its trademark grin, its bushy tail, its face that communicates one emotion although behind it lies another. I grew quite fond of its façade, although all it ever will be is a façade. How could I go beyond that and discover its depths when I had trapped it in a box?
In its box the cat stayed. I forced it not to be, but a part of myself wanted (and still wants) it to be. A paradox that ruined me, ruined the cat, because I succumbed to my curiosity and made the choice of not actually having a choice but wait, I think I did have a choice but wait, I already made the choice but wait, I change my mind I choose—WAIT CAT DON’T.
The cat is disappearing. Even its grin, which I’ve grown quite fond of. Vanished into thin air.
No, no. I never had a choice.
I’ll go ahead and say it: curious me was doomed to kill Schrodinger’s Cheshire cat. Such a long, drawn out, overdramatic confession for such a sick, cruel crime. In summary, I killed it, alright? I killed it.
And it will haunt me for the rest of my life the way shooting Alexander Hamilton haunted Aaron Burr for the rest of his. But I am owning up to it.
I killed the cat.