The Cat on My Planet — A Short Cosmology of Sensitivity
On a small roof somewhere, a cat hears color and tastes wind — a quiet map of perception and the art of resonance. the-cat-on-my-planet
🪶 Introduction
Sometimes it seems to me that people are just different planets.
On some, everything revolves around guilt,
on others — around logic,
and on mine there is a cat.
She’s full of cream and is sitting on the roof,
looking like someone who can fly,
but doesn’t consider it necessary to prove it.
I think if sensitivity had the form —
she would purr.
We teach a child not to imagine.
“Don’t make things up. It’s just a shadow, just wind, just sound.”
We trim his antennas
until only facts remain.Then he grows up
and sees only what can be proven.We say: “You’ve become so dry, you don’t feel anything.”
But he’s just learned
to live in a world
where you’re not allowed to hear color
or believe that silence purrs.
On my planet, people don’t live — they resonate. The ground hums, the air shivers with the memory of light. And somewhere above the roofs, a cat sits, full of cream and afternoon. She looks as if she could fly, but chooses not to — out of respect for gravity. She sees color as sound, sound as movement, movement as breath. Nothing here is still. Everything is a transition — a frequency, a wave, a pause between two kinds of silence. She is not a cat, but an antenna covered in fur and patience, listening to the shape of wind, tasting the sound of dawn. When she blinks, a small city forgets its sadness. When she yawns, a galaxy folds its wings. When she purrs, the spectrum shifts. I live beneath her shadow, trying to learn her language — how to move without disturbing, how to see without naming, how to be alive without explanation. If someone asks whether there is life beyond Earth — I’ll say: yes. She’s sitting on the roof again, radiating quiet, and pretending she doesn’t know she’s the sky. If sensitivity were a planet — what sound would yours make?
Philosophy After Light: The Alchemy of Attention and Ritual of Dissolution
A meditative philosophical series uniting Gnostic, Buddhist, and Hermeneutic traditions. Texts that dissolve thought, cleanse perception, and transform understanding into presence.
The Cat on My Planet is a lullaby for the senses a poem that doesn’t ask to be understood, only felt. It speaks to the part of us that still believes silence can purr, that wind has flavour, that colour might hum if we listen closely enough. The cat, full of cream and afternoon, isn’t just a creature she’s a presence, a quiet teacher of resonance and restraint.
This isn’t fantasy. It’s a gentle protest against the dryness of proof, the trimming of wonder. The child who’s told not to imagine grows into someone who forgets how to feel. But on this poet’s planet, feeling is survival. The cat doesn’t fly, not out of limitation, but out of respect for gravity, for stillness, for the sacredness of choosing not to rush.
It’s a poem that reminds us: to be sensitive is not to be weak. It’s to be attuned. And in that attunement, we find a kind of life that doesn’t need explanation only presence.
For the love of animals specially pets