Standing on a lush green pastured hill on a cold October day, wind stinging exposed skin, he looked down at the lifeless carcass. He couldn’t help feel pity for its eyes were hanging by thin threads of tissue, picked out by feeding ravens. Guts ravaged opened, strewn across damp grass, likely the work of a fox with cubs, eagerly waiting in a dirt hole somewhere not far away.
So small, so delicate, so gone. Cold and lifeless as a winters day, though the season said spring.
He went home and turned on the box.
To zone out,
to stop freaking out.
The same man appeared as he did most nights, that phoney smile, the success of fame and wealth had made him comfortable, now just motions of puppetry. Convincingly he described, on behalf of a grocery brand, that spring lamb had finally arrived in stores across the nation. It was a time to celebrate, as proven by visions of happy people cooking and dining on lamb as part of their perfect complete lives.
He couldn't help think of the processes and systems behind what he absorbed on the box. So complex, so integral in maintaining calm and balance for a world with such potential for desperate collapse.
He thought about the lamb, those eyeballs, those delicate miniature guts trailing from opened skin under a vulnerable woollen layer.
Was this it? Was this the cyclic nature of things now?
A disconnect. A carelessness. A modern reality.