It didnt ever occur to me before, how animals are raised just to be killed. What is that? What is life? They live to die.
On my desk, pots sit, erupting with vines that spill over the edges, their curly tendrils grabbing at the nearby sticks. I dribble water into dirt, and I swear, I can see them perk up. There are three pods hanging from the twirling stems, swollen with peas, which will soon be planted in their own pots.
You harvest plants. They do not have to die.
Is that life? Fattened, slaughtered, killed, wasted. Death.
So true.
ReplyDeleteI miss you.
we never hang out any more.