We sometimes wonder, in those thick twilights when reality thins its contours and the apartment becomes a cave lined with shadows and starlight dust, why we love cats.
It's not a clear affection, transparent as spring water of simple loves, but rather an underground complicity, a tacit understanding with a hint of wildness infiltrated, like a living silver thread, into the texture of our domestic existence.
The cat is not a pet, but a fragment of primordial night, an animated hieroglyph that slides among our Biedermeier or IKEA furniture, leaving behind an invisible trail of mystery and cosmic indifference.
We love, perhaps, that sovereign autonomy, that dignity of a small furry and capricious god who does not beg for affection, but accepts it as a natural tribute. In their eyes, agate or liquid emerald fantasies, an ancient wisdom is reflected, weary perhaps from too many reincarnations through the sofas of history.
They walk on our floors like astral maps known only to them, mapping invisible territories with their whiskers, seismic antennas that capture the subtle vibrations of the house, our unspoken anxieties, our ephemeral small joys.
Their torso, that vibrating motor that suddenly starts from the depths of their elastic being, is not just a sign of contentment, but a hypnotic mantra, a miniature tectonic hum that rearranges air molecules, inducing a strange peace, a sweet anesthesia of consciousness.
