Interlude — The Cat Who Guards the Inner Door

There is a cat who claims to guard the entrance to every human mind.
Not a metaphorical cat — a very real one, or so he insists.

He sits at the threshold like a customs officer with no patience and infinite authority.
Thoughts approach him in single file: anxious ones, dramatic ones, half‑formed ones, the ones that arrive uninvited at 3 a.m.

He inspects each with the bored precision of a creature who has seen too much.

“You’re too loud,” he says to the anxious thought.
“You’re too repetitive,” he says to the imaginary argument.
“You’re too dramatic,” he says to the catastrophic fantasy.
“And you,” he says to the intrusive memory, “have been here every day this week. Go home.”

Only the quiet thoughts — the clear ones, the honest ones — are allowed through.

“You may enter,” he says, stepping aside with ceremonial indifference.

Humans, of course, have no idea this is happening.
They assume their minds are chaotic by nature.
They assume every thought deserves entry.
They assume clarity is rare.

The cat disagrees.

“Clarity isn’t rare,” he says.
“Humans just let in too many idiots.”

Then he curls up at the door again, ready for the next arrival.