Maybe the old seers wrapped a simple, human mercy in symbols so dense we mistook it for magic. The “feline with the burning eye” guarding a “sky-born soul” might be nothing more — and nothing less — than a small animal refusing to leave us alone in our private collapse. In the dim light of bedrooms and hospital rooms, on the edge of panic or grief, that soft weight against a ribcage can feel like the only thing keeping the pieces from scattering.
What unnerves us is how precisely they seem to know when to appear, and how stubbornly they stay when we would rather disappear. No prophecy explains it cleanly. Yet night after night, paw after quiet paw, they keep choosing the side of us we’re most ashamed of. In a world that rewards composure, they curl up where we come undone — and somehow make that place survivable.
