Getting a headache, are we? You feel like Schrodinger’s cat. It’s really like asking yourself if the Big Bang was the beginning of everything, what was there in that split second before the Big Bang? If God created everything, what created God? If time begins with the Big Bang, what time was it before there was time? And who are you really, if you know your are merely an illusion created by you? And please tell me, what time is it? Find the black hole, for there is freedom.
What is there in a yawn that has time inexorably slow, flattening notes by some unknown but ever constant fraction of a tone so that each lingers painfully before proceeding? A moment is locked in place, frozen like Schroedinger’s cat before observation.
If you ask me whether a dog has Buddha nature, I will stare back at you in total silence. If you ask again, or implore an answer, I will smile at you, offer gassho and a bow. If you ask yet again, I will turn away and you will be left with a box into which you dare not look lest you find Schrodinger’s cat.
In the space of a moment a universe can be engulfed, light pours forth from a black hole, suns rise over the event horizon, space curves in on itself until it is yesterday. Shrodinger’s cat feasts on Albert’s twins and the dice are just out of reach.
The poet muses: I wonder if a cat purrs when no one is in the same room. I suppose we could put in a microphone and find out. Schrödinger comments: if there is no microphone the cat is purring and the cat is not purring, and what is the half- life of a poem.