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08/28/2005 5:18 p.m. - new repeating what is it that compels us to write, even when it feels like we have nothing unique to say, even when we know it is impossible for us to ever add something. is it related to some universal requirement to sustain the flow of energy? there's a lot going on, yet i can usually stop it as i choose. the thought of being a father barely affected me. moving to winnipeg didn't matter. the decision to give up the snowy comfort of house, mortgage, familiar cities and people - that's not even scary as i'm sure i would have once imagined. is the bird behind the canopy okay? and if it's not, should i go out of my way to prolong its agony? why is everyone so afraid of death - especially when continued suffering is the other option. my cats don't enjoy living inside the house, yet living outside means they will kill and be killed. perhaps even tortured to death. how is it that i am in a position to decide what is best for them? alas, i often consider euthanasia a higher form of love than what i am doing now, but i know most people would rather be ignorant to the discontentedness of `our' pets. fish in a tank, hamster in a cage, dog in a house - and we kill them until they need us, and we then use their incompetence to make ourselves feel useful, needed. often i think the combined misery felt by the confined pets in the world is enough to make animal agriculture look sane. but we don't see what we can't feel? |