Schrödinger's Meow Meow
A contained anomaly, exhibiting signs of distress.
NOTE – Schrödinger's cat was never a real experiment. It was a thought experiment proposed in 1935 to illustrate the paradoxical nature of quantum mechanics, not a literal event. No cats were harmed. This piece uses that metaphor to explore something very different.
Part 1: The Rule Is No Peeking!
There's a cat in a box.
That's me.
It's not a real box.
But it is.
But it's not.
It has corners and nothing else.
I don't know what day it is.
Someone said there's poison in here.
I don't know what poison smells like.
Maybe it's that weird bright thing in the corner?
Also, a Geiger Counter?
I never figured out what that was.
It could be a clock.
It could be my brain.
It could be God.
Anyway.
They say I'm dead and alive, depending on who's looking.
But no one looks.
That's the rule,
I think.
No peeking.
Which leaves me in this awkward state.
They love it.
(Flesh flavoured uncertainty. YUM.)
They say it's interesting.
That I'm important.
That I'm helping with science.
No one ever asks me what I think.
I think I miss being a house cat.
I think humans are weird.
Part 2: How to Pass Time in a Quantum Box?
Some days, I try to be dead to see if it works, but I don't know how to do that.
No one taught me.
The box is too tight to die in.
But also too soft to live in.
I have heard that you can't die in a metaphor.
I don't even know who this Meta is or what is so special about his fur.
I have nine lives.
I think.
I don't remember how many I used.
So I have to keep being.
Until someone says I don't have any left.
I made a puppet out of old paper in the corner.
His name is Ernest.
He is smart.
He tells me bedtime stories about numbers.
Yesterday, he said I have a 50% chance of being okay.
That feels high.
I think he's lying.
Sometimes I meow as loud as I can.
Just in case someone hears.
They never do.
It just bounces off the walls and comes back.
Like I'm echoing inside myself.
I keep a diary in my head.
Today I wrote:
"Still a cat. Still not dead.
Sylvia (the poison) says I'm being dramatic again.
She's right.
But also, she's poison.
She doesn't get to have opinions."
I tried to make a vision board.
I cut out fake pictures with my claws.
I glued on my dreams.
"Get out.
Wear a lab coat.
Put Mister Schrödinger in a box."
Sylvia said it was silly.
She said, "It's giving delusional."
I told her to go away.
Then I felt bad.
Then I cried.
It made the corner damp.
Part 3: Cat Facts
1) Cats purr when they're in pain.
Not always because they're happy.
Sometimes just to self-soothe.
Sometimes, because no one will soothe them if they don't.
2) I used to purr louder.
I don't know when it changed.
3) If you leave a cat in a sealed box for long enough,
It starts thinking that the box is safer than the outside.
The question was asked outside, after all.
And here,
at least
No one is asking anymore.
Part 4: The Question They Never Ask
People like the box.
They talk about it a lot.
They say,
"Is the cat dead?"
"Is the cat alive?"
No one ever asks what the cat wants.
Or what happened to make someone put him in the box in the first place?
Or if the experiment isn't about physics at all.
Maybe
It's about what people are willing to ignore
so they don't have to be responsible for knowing.
Maybe
It's easier to call this a theory.
Maybe
It's easier to pretend I'm a lesson instead of a soul.
Part 5: The Observer Effect
They say the act of observing changes the outcome.
But what if they look and it still doesn't change?
What if they open the box and shrug?
"Oh. You're fine."
"Oh. That's it?"
"Oh. You're still here?"
I try to be nice, just in case.
I try to be quiet, and shiny, and soft.
Like the cats on the windowsills in books.
I hide the parts of me that don't look like science.
Or poems.
Or answers.
Because if they do open the box —
If they see me —
And they still walk away?
Then it was never the experiment that hurt me.
It was about who they cared to see.
And that's not me.
Part 6: Legacy of the Boxed
I've been here so long.
I think I forgot how fresh air feels.
What if I don't like air?
I think about what I'll leave behind.
In case someone comes in after me.
A map on how to survive unverification.
A list of things that helped.
A warning carved into the wall in bite marks.
Or maybe I'll leave just one small note,
“This was never an experiment.”
