Kicking Cats

So today I caught myself doing something I do all the time and it got me thinking, so bear with me. Stream of consciousness here.

Whenever I leave my apartment, my cat gets curious about the door and the world on the other side. She's no stranger to the outside, she was a stray. She is now, along with my wife's cat, an indoor cat. She seems fine with this, and when presented with an open door will investigate no further than the threshold. She used to make a run for it, but hasn't shown much interest lately.

Nevertheless, whenever I go outside and she does show interest, I stick my foot in front of her and block her potential exit. Why? Well, I know that there is danger out there, especially for her. There are  cars, tomcats, raccoons, dogs, eagles, and disease. It is not safe. I care about her so I protect her. Is that a life worth living? I assume any life is worth living, but that might be because I am a spoiled North American. Either way it's got to be a strange life. A life of captive decadence. No escape from the free food, warmth, love, and things to claw.

If I am so worried about protecting her from the real world (which I understand doesn't end at my door, but you get my meaning) then why do I go out there? Presumably I should have just as much to fear from outside as my cat. If there is danger out there then I have to assume that danger is the nature of reality. If so, then does that mean that nature is maligned towards me/us? Or is it that nature is simply indifferent to me? That seems the obvious, logical choice. It would seem hubris to assign that kind of opposition. Unless it's directed without malicious intent. What if suffering makes the world go round? As if misery and death were the energy our existence is meant to create. That doesn't make sense, because why then would there be anything other than misery and death. Perhaps anything else is illusion crafted by ourselves, enslaved beings without external hope. My goodness, that's dark. I feel kind of bad just writing that. What a disgusting and hopeless existence. I'm having a pretty good time, so it can't be that bad. It's just that one doesn't have to look far to find that suffering. If I can live such a relaxed and peaceful life, why can't everyone? Does this mean I have to give everything up and live in the woods? I'd like that, actually. Does it mean I live with this heavy guilt? It's second nature for our generation and our place to waste. We do it subconsciously, and it's worked into the systems we have created.

You know that empty spot? The one that, if I could describe it physically, sits in your chest. It's kind of heavy, and aches. What is that thing? Sometimes, the more I think, the worse it gets. Maybe it's worry, or guilt. It's kind of like fear, but without the adrenaline. It feels impending in some way. I don't really know why I use the term "empty" but it seems to be the best word for it. It's asking for something. Spiritual fulfillment seems the most likely request, based on where it is and how it feels. So, I suppose I need to be more spiritual. People already think I'm weird about this stuff.

For example, I tried to tell my mother and sister about making my rune set, and expanding my awareness and all that crap, but they weren't very receptive. Mom is too Christian, and I think my sister might be an atheist now. That's cool, I support those things. I'm still judeo-christian, I just feel that I connect better with practices from my genetic history. My people never lived in the desert, I don't relate to those analogies or symbols. You know what though? I get why they don't approve. They have their thoughts and beliefs and need them, just like I need mine. It's a gruesome disconnect though.

Back to my earlier point, about needing more spirituality. Why? Why do I need it and not others? I don't see this in my brother or my sister. I can kind of see it other people, and it's obviously a genuine need in my heart. Why then, doesn't everyone go through this? There are physical people and there are spiritual people. Are we supposed to talk about it, or is this a division thing? Can I talk to people about this hole in my chest, and expect some kind of understanding? Or am I admitting something negative and socially taboo about myself?

So that, in a few brief paragraphs, is how I think. Not in words though, it's more emotions and pictures, with a  narrative delivery full of gravitas and urgency.