Emote

I feel like a cow. Or what I assume a cow feels like. Evidently I wouldn’t know for sure. For if I was a cow, I wouldn’t be me. And since I am me, I am definitely not a cow. All said, all explained, I still think I feel like a cow. I guess its analogous to the inability to make a ruling on whether labor pains are greater on the pain scale compared to getting kicked in the balls. For if you had balls, you will not go into labour, and if you’re in labour, obviously you don’t have the balls. Whatever. That’s the beauty of it all. Mutually exclusive.
But coming back to the cow, its inability to move, its ability to move rather slowly and with no grace, whatsoever, oodles of saliva dripping from its mouth unhygienically, and rather unsightfully as it chews on grass crudely, it still gives a picture of being sort of intellectual. Ruminating. That slow rhythmic movements of its mandibles up and down, sort of equates with the brain waves it possibly could have. Even if we attached electrodes to the portion on its head between its distastefully red painted horns, we still wouldn’t know what the cow is thinking or feeling. For all we know, it could be reflecting on how it feels like a human. I haven’t examined or inspected closely on a live cow in situ, but its eyes are probably glassy, the glass part of it misting and hiding away what could be emotions lying underneath.
Timid creatures, they are, who else would let a different species touch them and milk them? Have you ever seen them run? Probably not, because they don’t. Atleast they don’t, unless its an absolute necessity. I don’t see any reason why they should either. We don’t see that many tigers or lions on the streets these days, anyway. What will they run from? Cows are color blind, with a limited vocabulary. Life becomes so simple then. Its either black or white, moo, or moomoo. Its all about maintaining the right pitch, and at the right time. Lesser association between the two cerebral hemispheres.
Cows don’t have to worry about becoming fat. Fat becomes them. Cows are universally fat, and fat is cow. Mutually inclusive. When you have all the ugly characteristics already, that kind of becomes you, defines you, and is you, you don’t have to worry about anything. Because it cannot get worse. It can only get better, and in this case, better moves both up and down, eventually cancelling out, leaving a neutral state, square one, the place you started at. Which is anyway fugly. So why bother? Be a cow, fat and fugly, inert, and immobile, timid and flat, eat your grass, smoke it, step on it, try and dance for all that anyone cares. And silently meditate, as the bitter taste of raw, dirty grass gets to you, with all the salivary glands rising up to the challenge, overworking in fact, on why the sun rises in the east. And suddenly life seems much simpler.
All said and done, the cow is a sacred animal. Pray to it, and maybe the sun will rise again tomorrow.