Katherine Roman

Who is Kat?

Who is Kat?

You shut your filthy whore mouth. I'm not even joking. Go sit in the frigging corner and reflect upon the vastness of your ignorance. I'm serious. Go.

Alright, you're done. Sit down and gird your goddamn loins, we're going to rectify this shit right now.

Kat is more than a person. More than an idea. Kat is a force of nature, a flawless construct of existence given breath and consciousness. She is beyond mundane praise: to call her beautiful is akin to calling The Odyssey an old fish tale. She is matchless and everlasting.

In the beginning, there was Kat. She existed in the void, fully-formed but without purchase. And so she waited, watching. She observed the gaseous roilings of distant galaxies, the death rattles of supernovas, the brief, furious lives of a billion separate comets. And she watched as a lonely, obscure world coalesced in the puddle of light cast by a nameless star. She watched it burn and cool, shift and settle, flood and dry. She watched as life took its first, mindless steps upon it. She watched as behemoths of land and sea were lost to asteroidal caprice and she watched for millions of years as life on this little planet struggled forward, into the light of self-awareness.

Kat was there when man first spoke, harnessed fire, and when the first truly human child was born. She taught the shamen of those days how to call down the rain and how to barter with the gods, for magic still lay in the veins of the land then. She was the muse who gave The Tale of Genji, the Iliad, and The Epic of Gilgamesh to man, through storytellers of her choosing. She sold Brutus his knife. She led the asp to Cleopatra. She planted the seed of the tree the Buddha sat beneath to attain enlightenment. She harvested the wood that built the cross upon which Jesus Christ expired. She placed the last stone and the first flag upon the Great Wall. She spread the tales that were later collected by the Brothers Grimm. She put holiness in the souls of the saints. She crafted the paintbrushes of the great Renaissance masters. She bred Paul Revere's horse. She gave Mary Shelley dreams of a man sewn from corpses. She marched with Gandhi to the sea. She ensured that both Karl Marx and Ayn Rand has access to pen and paper. She spread tales of the Cosmonauts in the United States, and of Neil Armstrong in the Soviet Union. And she is watching still.

Kat pays allegiance to nothing. She swears no oaths of fealty to country, god, master, or even friend. Her purpose here encompasses everything and nothing. Does an ultimate goal for our pitiful little planet exist in the fathomless, galaxy-spangled, universe-spanning depths of her mind? Is she simply a force of change--or even chaos? In her machinations, is she in fact stability incarnate? We do not know, and almost assuredly wecannot know.

But Kat is here. And she will remain here beyond the last ruinous gasps of our sun, beyond the unraveling of our galaxy, beyond the decay of the last lifeform. Perhaps she will remain here beyond existence itself.

Kat is everything, nothing, and all that lies between. She permeates every furrow of creation, every thought in every head. She is your god, your mother, your nemesis, your friend, your lover, your queen, your devil and yourself.

Now, you understand.

Sie sind das Essen und wir sind die Jäger