Cat Owning a Damn Place

You enter a long gallery. A gallery, despite your wishfulness, bears no resemblance to the morbidly cozy corridors of painted grotesque figures hung across the walls all over other rooms. A gallery - this gallery - is well-deprived of any aesthetics in your eyes, dwelling onto its crude existence. Striking in a cold garishness, shape-waning images beyond the reach of your psyche crawl into your memory to gnaw your grasp of reality and twist the very pillars of your consciousness latching to the rapidly fading memories of prior meaningfulness of existence. A seeming fraction of a second spent gazing into and onto ever and all-encompassing imagery is followed by the awareness that you are yet to comprehend the amount of time ever passed at that point - what feels like instances suddenly brings you to feel centuries and millennia pass inadvertently, slipping through and away from your sense of time of what one is destined to remain locked onto the physical world. Feeling overwhelmed not to lose touch with your humanity, you fear to bring this to the front of your mind, as your sense of reality would to crumble in agonising hysteria. The last squeaks of your psyche are to be bestowed on with the most beautiful experience no creature were ever to witness: dazzling stream of outworld consciousness seems to subvert the very matter of you soul, as you find your way navigating deeper into the chamber of this existential essence, where all passed, all that is and all to ever be are granted meaning through merging every instance of everything in the wraith of lights and sounds. In the middle of it lies a cat cleaning himself, as if he owns the damn place.