A Found Purpose

Gordon's apartment provided very little in the ways of cat food. Like my own, his lot had been strategically liberated of all items of value. That is, all items with any assumed value in the world's current state. It is interesting, this fluidity in the concept of value. The regression of humanity back into a hunter-gatherer state has resulted in the discarding of so many items that were so aggressively sought after before, the vanity of their material appeal having been fully exposed. Then, is this a true regression? Is the recognition of this superfluity of material appeal not a progression of sorts? No, it's not that simple, it cannot be, for above Gordon's couch hangs a print of ​Wheat Field with Cypresses​; the works of Plato, Nietzsche and Hume populate his shelves; a crate filled with  vinyl records of Coltrane, Thelonious Monk and Dizzy Gillespie rests inconspicuously next to Shilah's cat tree. Surely no cataclysm could render such items valueless... Surely these items would hold preference in the eyes of any scavenger.​

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I do not understand this abandonment. I do not understand any attraction to survival without the likes of these items. What is the appeal of an artless wasteland? Such a barren existence...but, who am I to assign value? How can I boast such authority in the designation of value? Who am I to pass such haughty judgment? No, I do not understand the origin of these thoughts. If these are my thoughts, I am unsure what I think of them. My memory is too broken, polarizing in its clarity and absence.

There was a single bag of cat food in the hallway closet, maybe ​10% full at best; or rather, 90% empty. ​The words "Perfect Pebbles" stretched across the front of the bag in red balloon-like lettering. The period of the bloated exclamation mark had long whiskers protruding from its sides. A digitally altered cat feasted on a digitally altered bowl of the product in a digitally altered kitchen - oh, the body image issues this kitty cat must induce among cats all around the world; such perfectly airbrushed fur. Thus is the power of marketing, as evidenced by Gordon's shameless purchase. As for the situation at hand... the contents of this bag will not suffice, but perhaps the grocery store across the street will have more? I must—nay, I will—ensure Shilah's survival. I vow to protect you.