Sejin

Sometimes when I am cutting onions I hear a high-pitched squeak that I associate to them shrieking. I think of them crying out as my knife devours their bodies. I think of how I would explain it to them— that their bodies are being used to feed other humans. That their sacrifice is noble. That they were bred for this moment. Somewhere in a far-off field their extensive family was created for this moment. But I am lying to them. They don’t make this noise, I am imagining it.

There are times when the green is so overwhelming, so utterly humbling in its scale that I feel like a small fish in an ancient ocean of thoughts and rhetoric. I feel connected to this great aroura of literal thinking.  But it can be obnoxious. The endless chatter, as if they were birds constantly chittering about nonsense. Mostly the weather. Incredibly, insanely apathetic household weather people giving you updates every 4 minutes. They view what they do as very important. And are mainly interested in their own affairs. Affairs being the operative term. Sexual activity, and their manifestations of it are basically all they care about. it governs everything in their world. I imagine this in so many ways it’s a conversation for another time.

                I think our rudimentary version of this is dreaming. They are never really awake, and they are never really asleep. They are this abstract halfway point of consciousness and machine. Their hormones govern their movements, their lives are a kind of dream that they meet with nobility of their presence; they are as we are, playing our parts in life.