They say a cat waits in a box,
alive and dead
until someone dares to look.
I know that cat.
I’ve worn its skin,
breathed both life and ending
in the same trembling second.
Every truth I open
kills another illusion.
Every lie I keep
lets another ghost breathe.
The box isn’t in the lab —
it’s in the chest.
It hums behind the ribs,
a purr, a bomb, a prayer.
We all sit there,
half dream, half dust,
waiting for the moment
we finally look,
and become
whatever survives the sight.
—Vazago
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 8:23 AM UTC
They say a cat waits in a box,
alive and dead
until someone dares to look.
I know that cat.
I’ve worn its skin,
breathed both life and ending
in the same trembling second.
Every truth I open
kills another illusion.
Every lie I keep
lets another ghost breathe.
The box isn’t in the lab —
it’s in the chest.
It hums behind the ribs,
a purr, a bomb, a prayer.
We all sit there,
half dream, half dust,
waiting for the moment
we finally look,
and become
whatever survives the sight.
—Vazago
This piece dives into the paradox of being — the eternal in-between where we exist before choosing, before seeing.
Using Schrödinger’s cat as symbol, it explores how truth and illusion live side by side inside the human heart.
The “box” isn’t physics; it’s the soul.
Every time we dare to look within, something dies — fear, pretense, denial — and something survives: awareness.
It’s a poem about the cost of consciousness, the courage to see ourselves clearly, and the quiet rebirth that follows.
