I am a cow on a deserted island waiting to be recognized: grazing, sleeping, and eating. I am ugly and weathered, chewing cud with a nappy coif. My tongue seekssalvation in sustenance and hydration. My belly demands me and the bell around my neck sounds me. Cows live within a biological code designed to survive.
Times like this call for people; they call for an acknowledgment of being no matter the truth of circumstance. I am real. I am here. I am not so perfect and rather weathered by condition, striving to live in a world far less forgiving than the one portrayed in the collective fantasy. We all must be pretty and we all must be wealthy and we all must be elegantly paired or we are nothing. The nothing kind lives in poverty, stricken by an addiction of ignorance and choice.
I do not choose this. I am an addict but not the kind you deem me to be. I am addicted to the dream that feels less than on a daily basis because my ingredients do not add up. The recipe of me was not tested properly. My recipe fails the collective consciousness. I am sorry. May I be forgiven and know a better place?
The parts of me that fall short are truth seeking and over feeling of the world. These elements get me in trouble. I chew and chew and chew but I cannot survive upon them. There are no absolutes in cud.