Ode to an Egg as yet Unbroken
Fertilization seems the ultimate query.
Did it or didn’t it happen, and how to know. One’s entire future is premised on the answer. And one wonders which answer is most propitious? Will one hatch or will one be cracked open and ingested? “One” seems the appropriate first person subject-object, etc. Not knowing whether one is male, female or neither is so vague yet so full of possibilities. One is utterly inchoate during that period when self-awareness is still merely percolating but has already started to ponder.
And if one has been fertilized, well, … what will one be? An insect, a frog, a reptile, a bird, a mammal? How can one tell from in here? Does the fact that one wonders prove fertilization took place, or can one, unfertilized, still dream and wonder, hope and dread; speculate on what it might feel like being cracked, then fried, then eaten with bread.
Of course, if one is ingested into a higher being (one wonders what makes a being higher, as opposed to just high), then through a less sublime form of reverse or inverse transubstantiation, one becomes one with the ingesting entity, and, even if never fertilized, still attains being-hood.
Of course, perhaps the ingesting entity has never heard of bread, perhaps it’s just a might have been relative, or a predator of a might have been relative, or a scavenger.
And of course, fertilization is no guarantee of freedom from ingestion.
But what if one has been fertilized, is it too soon to start making plans for a productive future when one has no way of knowing just what one is?
Is being inchoate a good thing?
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2016; all rights reserved