Schroedinger's Organ

The insides of our bodies, the slew or supremely organised mess and gore that lies inside all of us, is a Schrodinger’s cat, a blood soaked feline wreathed in nerve and sinew waiting for the knife.

For how do we ever really know our own internal structure? We never see it. Until it is X-Rayed or MRI scanned, it isn’t there and the conditions of imaging (i.e. measuring) our structure must change it – Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle says so.

We can’t ever see our own heart our liver or lungs. We only have the word of others that they are there. If you were to try and take a look at your own heart, you would almost certainly kill yourself in the process.

I’d like to think, in my own case certainly, that until you take a scalpel to my rib cage, I don’t actually have any internal organs. I certainly don’t have a heart. I think that my body is actually part of the multiverse, that the eleventh dimension and all the branes it contains, is actually within this unsleek skin. My insides are not a butcher’s shop slab; they are stars, and black holes and quasars and masers.

Starlight shines, and yet, as I know for sure, there must be an awful lot of dark matter and dark energy in there too, in the cranial space where my brain is thought to be by conventional science.

It is ironic too, that the means of my escape from drudgery are contained within me, a journey into the universe! And I can never reach it.

Copyright Bloody Mulberry 16/11/13