October 22, 2007
By Masha Goncharova, Laguna Beach, CA

I tired to be apathetic. To numb myself out to the fact that the obscurities of life are just the things I can’t grasp. The fact that gentle souls such as mine will get scratched, beaten, eaten, and really any other form of torture there is. Indescribably, these Cats (and yes, unfortunately I do capitalize their names, simply because of their undeserving high stature in society), rip me quietly. Resentful of my luck? But who am I to say what this world is about?
Who am I to say that these Cats are merely people who have been so deeply hurt in their childhood (or are currently being hurt) that the only approval for their actions is the simple human nature of hurting others because they need a “revenge”? Who am I to say? You see, dear Reader, that last phrase was the bitterest irony one could find. My childhood deep hurt was greater than most, and not being able to remember it solely creates a vast hole where this pain in my heart should be. Affably odious, my sad forgetting soul is continually the target of so many Cats who are under the opinion that their hurt is greater than mine.
Why am I not one of these Cats?
I am.
I am.
I am.
A soul far gentler than mine, one with a quieter nature about her (therefore implying that less Cats find ways to hurt her) was my friend until a few months ago. She loved, and loved purely. Who she loved I cannot say, but before her passionate love could be put on a boyfriend of some sort it was placed on me, a sort of shelf to keep her emotions until a proper mate comes to grab them.
As I have previously realized, I became a Cat. I identify myself with these Cats only because I betrayed her. Not because I scratched her or played any of those ruthless, disgusting, slimy political games or cornered her into a situation with many angry people. I would never do that to anybody. That level of Cat is an atrocity I will only be an onlooker to and hopefully never be subjected to.
I left her. I took my shelf-self and disappeared. To a foreign country, no less, where she had never traveled but wished she could. As the placeholder for her hopes and dreams dissolved, her soul (most probably) began falling. From what I have been observing from my quick sightings of her and her vacantly scared and soft eyes, it seems to me that what I did was ok.
Maybe what every Cat does to another fellow Cat, or perhaps a Mouse (I capitalize this because sometimes mice can bit back) is good.
This girl with the lost eyes, her soul is stronger. By doing the fastidious deed which I so humbly have just described has strengthened her safe guard. I can now leave her with the thought that never again will she have to deal with someone so destroying as myself. Because in reality the only reason I destroyed her is because I have been destroyed so many times myself.
And I have been destroyed by people much less (or, perhaps more?) destructed. Cats on the streets of New York, those skinny sad limping fur balls, have always found themselves a home. Some lay to rest at a nearby trashcan, succumbing themselves to a level less than that of which they deserve. Others beg, hoping that a stranger deigns to give them mercy, or better yet food.
But all in all, these cats on the street are no less people than we are. These cats are the cats in our society. The only difference is that with a tiny sprinkle of humility and in some cases a sense of goodness. A thought, a mere muse, on perhaps not destroying all that is around you just for revenge. Not all of us have to be the big nosed Count of Monte Cristo.

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