Cat Monologue: Cheshire

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s not helpful.”

Alice sat alone for a long time. The toadstool had stopped squeaking. Cheshire Cat Monologue

The Cat vanished. Then, from her left ear: “You think you’re falling.” From her right: “You’ve been standing still the whole time.” His face reassembled in front of her nose, upside down. “Wonderland isn’t a place you visit, Alice. It’s the shape your sanity makes when it’s tired of being a square.”

“We have an appointment every time you look at the sky and feel too big for your own skin.” The rest of him poured into existence: a striped head, then a torso that shimmered like heat haze, then a tail that ended in a question mark. “Sit down, or don’t. Both are equally uncomfortable.” “I don’t understand

The Cat’s body faded to a whisper of stripes, leaving only his mouth behind. The grin swelled until it filled the whole clearing, teeth like piano keys, each one a different shade of white.

“Here’s what’s precise,” he said, and his voice was now the rustle of a billion unseen things. “You came looking for answers. But answers are just doors with ‘Exit’ signs painted over them. You don’t need to leave, Alice. You need to realize there was never a room.” Then, from her left ear: “You think you’re falling

“Good!” He laughed, and the laugh was a physical thing—a ripple through the air that made the mushrooms sway. “Understanding is just a slower kind of madness. The fastest kind is what you’re doing right now. Pretending this is a dream so you don’t have to admit that you are the dream and Wonderland is the dreamer.”

Alice sat on a toadstool that squeaked politely. “Everyone’s angry today. The Red Queen wanted my head for using the wrong fork. At breakfast.”

Alice folded her arms. “I wasn’t aware we had an appointment.”