Noun

Schrödinger’s Carte: (n.)

When a diner cannot know with certainty what they are going to order until the waiter comes to the table and asks them.

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It starts so simply.

“The chicken. No. The fish.”

And with that, I take my first soft steps into the labyrinth.

Am I the Andrew who orders chicken? Or am I the Andrew who orders fish?

Maybe I am both. Maybe I am neither.

I sit in this silence and dither – chicken or fish, chicken or fish – and all the while, my dining companions chat happily.

A whiff of oblivion curls through the air.

No! No, there will be other meals. I have ordered before. I have eaten. I shall eat one day, again.

But still this sucking anxiety persists, unabating, unrelenting.

I cannot decide what I want for dinner. I cannot decide anything. I will remain at this table forever.

For I have always been here – trapped and starving at the crossroads of chicken and fish.

Nothing to be done.

The universe cracks and rolls over my eyes like a stone.

Where is the waiter? Where is the waiter? Only the waiter can save me.

And then, like a gasp, like an icy whisper in my ear, I realize the horrible truth.

The waiter…

The waiter is me. 

Always. Forever. Endless.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting…

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