CHRISTMAS SEASON DIARIES I sit near the kitchen fire, blankets hugging me to protect me from the winters cold. Im trying to kill a duck and I have its neck in a choke-hold with my thumbs, but this particular duck is a tough one; still kicking with life even after several minutes of being pinched on its wind-pipe. Impatiently, I go outside with a Dao-blade and a chopping board, and cut off its head in one strike. Streams of blood flow freely like a red fountain, from its neck, where its head once is. I am reminded of a Taliban beheading video I recieved on Whatsapp just a few days earlier. For a moment, I feel so badass; holding the dead duck in the most dramatic poses trying to act out villians seen in movies. But my fantasy world is shattered by a shout calling out my name. Im brought back to earth by my mom telling me to get back inside lest I get a cold. The duck is prepared and cooked. Christmas season is almost over and the effect of the countless numbers of pigs slaughtered in this season is evident in the people getting fat like pigs; the legacy of the pigs living on in their pot-bellies. I sit near the kitchen fire-place again and stare up and see the remains of pork meat still not eaten; a huge head of a pig staring at me, the different lines of its face pulled and contorted into the most disfigured smile. Strangely enough, he looked happy. Maybe he was, I thought. During his life on earth, he is forced to live in his small pen where he has room to move around freely, along with his parents and siblings; and the pen is usually small, coupled with the stench of their own wastes smearing the walls and floor of their own wooden prison. And they scream almost everyday in hunger waiting for their food and eat their food after their throats have gone sore from the loud, excessive and persistant squeals of hunger. Maybe after their their death, they all go to pig-heaven, roaming and prancing around freely in the vast lusciois fields with their other piggy friends, with no houses to enslave them. Maybe in this pig-heaven they eat what they want at anytime they please with no smell of their own wastes, the smell replaced with the smell of fresh grass and plants sprouting out from the fields for their consumption. So maybe the pigs really are happy in their deaths, I think to myself staring at the hideous grin pasted on the face of the enormous head of the pig over the kitchen fire-place. Maybe; just maybe. This Group has now passed 13,000 members. Thank you guys. Further help will be greatly appreciated... :) (#_#)
Posted on: Tue, 30 Dec 2014 03:07:00 +0000
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