a term profound,
In Cassirer’s realm, humanity’s quest,
Known through symbols, truths unsound.

Our essence shaped by this symbolic crest,
Cosmos constructed, our insight chained,
Purpose infused in actions’ zest.

In this constructed world, constraints retained,
Every deed holds a purpose, clear or veiled,
Meaning sculpted, more or less, ingrained.

In diverse ways, our actions hailed,
Seeking sense in life’s complex swirl,
Purpose, to the world unveiled.

Striving to make sense, each twirl,
Symbolic beings, in a constant unfurl.

and perhaps that explains why?

Foucault’s cat named ”Insanity” in its might,
Sartre’s feline ”Nothing,” void and vast,
Huxley’s ”Limbo” explored the night.

Magritte’s cat lost in shadows cast,
A name unknown, a mystery yet,
Each cat, a name to memory amassed.

These intellectuals, their feline bet,
In enigmatic titles, their cats did dwell,
Each name a puzzle, a memoir set.

Explaining a curiosity’s swell,
Cats’ names echo their owners’ trail,
A riddle of names, where stories tell.

Unraveling the mystery’s veil,
Cats’ names, a pondering carousel.

Seven cats, each day,
Significance in fur and play,
Week’s companions stay.

In seven days, the world took shape, they say,
Countless creatures in the Bible’s hand,
Yet cats, beloved, missed from that array.

Adored by some, a feline band,
Absent from texts, a silent departure,
In ancient lore, a void, unplanned.

Cherished houseguest, a furry venture,
Unmentioned in the sacred script,
Their absence, a puzzle to conjecture.

Those who adore, their hearts afflicted,
God’s world shaped, a tale’s wide span,
Cats’ omission, a truth restricted.

Seven days formed Earth’s grand plan,
But cats, in silence, elude the scan.

Creatures of the night, nocturna’s call,
Cats, liminal beings in twilight’s grace,
In liminal time, my parents’ final fall.

Mum gone, dad long in death’s embrace,
Amidst this change, a crimson feline nears,
A fat cat with a friendly, tummy’s space.

Distinctive, this red cat that appears,
Defines our sensory realm in its hue,
Sensitivity to stimuli steers.

From light to touch, reactions ensue,
Instincts wide, be it fight or flight,
Responses vary, each response true.

Some, hypo-sensitive in their right,
Pain or touch, a deeply felt line,
Interoception’s cues, intimate light.

In feline essence, a depth to shine,
Meaningful beings, each day’s design.

One of seven days, a cat came by,
A memory vivid, another feline glance,
In Venice’s alley, under the sky.

Beside me, watching, in that trance,
Eyes akin to Ruskin’s own,
A feline portrait, a singular stance.

Recalled like a painting finely honed,
In that alley’s dark, the cat did dwell,
A scene from memory’s stone.

In introspection, Ruskin found his drive,
Routine and repetition, his constant choice,
Echolalia embraced, his life alive.

Venetian stones, his passion’s voice,
Daily rhythms, part of Ruskin’s form,
Control and solace, his unique rejoice.

Effie, his contrast, a life to perform,
Their differences like Venetian streets,
For her, socializing was the norm.

Social skills, akin to cats’ quiet beats,
Some mask well until burnout’s plea,
Low social ’battery,’ the heart retreats.

Draining interactions, the toll to see,
Selecting moments, a vital demand,
In life’s chaos, stability’s decree.

Seven cats, each day’s gentle hand,
Anchors in routine, a comfort’s band.

Sylvia Plath once said, ”I’m a smiling woman,”
A declaration, candid, simply spoken,
Like a cat, nine lives, I have them.

Sunshine bright or skies of gray, all token,
Each day varies, changes its display,
As we cherished our feline, Habibi awoken.

”My lovely,” we called, endearing in our way,
As my dear, my love, my darling, did soar,
Nine lives, I carry, just like my play.

Countless times, as many as before,
Our cat, a memory of days so vast,
I’ve searched and searched, weary at my core.

Hunting for a cat, lost in the past,
A baffling tale, tangled and blurred,
One moment present, then fading fast.

Resurrected, same form, same furred,
An elusive mystery, shifting its frame,
A name altered, conviction assured.

Stolen away, a life, a game,
Much like life’s happenings, in a twist,
Out of control, painted in shame.

In the chaos, I persist,
Crafting meaning from the uncertain spree,
Seven days a week, my purpose enlist.

In seven days, each cat recalls,
A memory woven, a cherished tale,
Captain Cat’s dreams, the past enthralls.

Tormented by those who set sail,
Lost to depths, where sorrows swell,
Haunted by nostalgia’s mournful veil.

In the echoes of a bygone bell,
The past, a shadow cast, a yearning vast,
Seven days with memories dwell.

Captain Cat, his dreamlands vast,
Each cat’s memory a cherished blast,
In the reels of time, a treasure amassed.

3000 cats roam free,
Each day akin to the last,
Repetition reigns.

Same food, day by day,
A habit, not strange, though dull,
Yet love persists strong.

“Yeslamou habibi,”
Gratitude blooms, love’s sweet words,
Thanks, my dearest love.

يسلموا حبيبي,

“Mensch” as “animal symbolicum” we name,
In Cassirer’s realm, humanity’s veil,
Known through symbols, life’s enduring game.

Our essence grasped in this symbolic trail,
Constructed cosmos, our truth contained,
Purpose adorns every action’s sail.

Within our crafted world, constraints constrained,
Meaning varies, more or less, we find,
Each day’s pursuit, purpose ingrained.

To comprehend life’s chaos and its bind,
Foucault, with “Insanity,” sought his chord,
Sartre’s “Nothing,” Huxley’s “Limbo” defined.

Magritte’s cat lost in the record of time,
Seven unique companions, each cat’s unique grace,
Each day holds significance in its prime.

Week’s passage, a mystique in its embrace,
Symbols woven in actions we routinely keep,
In routines, rhythms, and life’s endless chase.

And as God worked through seven days, a sweep,
The week concludes, a new year soon to spin,
Seven days done, a new cycle shall begin.