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My life, it is comparted; everything is neatly packed and ordered in

my body and soul. I am the master of my thoughts. I am the ruler of my

dreams. In a thousand nights of meditations I wandered through my

mind, packing boxes, small and big, beautiful and dangerous ones.

Everything is neatly ordered, I say to myself, and a part of me

expects to hear the praise of my father that never came in my youth.

But I am now what I should be have been in the past, and the time for

praise is over.

I wander along the corridors and down toward the one box that had not

been my doing. It had appeared one day, an unusual brightness in the

shades of order, gleaming with an inner flame. Again, I sit down in

front of it, and touch its essence with my thoughts. Inhaling its

color and tasting its sound, I reach out with the breezes of awareness

that are my hands in the depths of my mind.

I have never opened it. I know what it is about. Here was the answer

to a question I never dared to ask. What humans would call love, it

had its box here. I tried to move it away, night after night, into one

of the many rooms with the many ordered boxes. It resisted my attempts

at order. I resist its appeal for opening.

Does the cat live, Schroedinger had asked. Only looking would tell,

but looking might kill it. The pulsing light the box gives in my mind

is so much more than there has been before, and the call for knowledge

but a small whisper against the need to hold what I already have. And

so I sit at its front, night after night, warming myself in the dark

halls of my order.

And I live my life day after day, enjoying what he gives to me, but

his impulses go through me and fade unanswered in the end. And

sometimes I wonder if it has to be that way. What would I see if I

were to open it tonight? Would there be life in it, a thread to

follow, a mind to answer? Or was it all my senseless hope that had

built an altar of reminiscence?

Like every night, I do not open it. Pulling myself away, I return into

the life where duty rules in a pleasant way, spanning the way of

things like a spider's web. But the room is dark, the fire is gone,

and it is this image that finally makes the decision for itself. I

will open the box tomorrow.


My life, it is comparted, but no longer like it was. Sharp lines have

encarved their trails into its depths, partings wishes from hopes and

hopes from longings and longings from desparation, loss in its

geometric center. The box, it glows like no other night, but its

invitation is a fake, and all there were to find would be my inner

weaknesses. I had known they were good friends -- I had not known how

far their friendship went. But now I know, and I nail the box shut and

bury it deep into the sands of logic. And soon, a thousand nights of

meditations will burn it to ashes in Gol.


(Schroedinger's Cat - in essence a fetching thought experiment to the

question: When and how do microscopic possibilities of quantum states

transform to a definite macroscopic state?)

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