Baz Ozturk | February, 19 2016
People are only trying to make themselves count. But we don’t, really. We don’t. Lucy’s been growing up and asking questions; she hasn’t gotten anywhere. People are oblivious, impervious to reason, it seems. Get down to the base and what’s there? She can’t see anything. Things kept happening all the time and they couldn’t be stopped, she knew that for certain. She is going to die some day, she is going to be forgotten, and that will be that. Why was she even here then? Her mother looked afraid when she tried to talk to her, and her father struggled too. Creased brows, a look of perplexity. And her teachers she didn’t bother with because they seemed silly to her. She knew they would be displeased, annoyed even, and make very bad attempts not to show it. Lucy preferred to think about these things and try to figure them out in her own mind, splayed on the living room sofa watching the black cat bathe itself a few feet away from her, clearly enjoying being noticed. What prevented her from stomping on the cat’s head? I wonder what purpose you serve, you specifically, she asked the cat. I wonder what I’ll be when I’m older, and I wonder if these questions will fade away to a vague space, forgotten, trampled and overtaken by material life. It seems inevitable. You get to an age at which the force of it is too powerful to combat. She wasn’t in a hurry to grow up. She scrutinized adults closely. Older people look lost, she said to the cat, as if they are looking for a way out of a place they don’t even know they’re in. Lucy didn’t want to turn vague; she didn’t want to look for herself in standards the way grown ups do, as if they would find themselves there, the fools. She frowned at the cat.