The Veal of Dreams

“Oh Jesus...A child...”

“Ah, the veal of dreams.”

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No one cares about everything, thats an impossible request to fulfill; it doesn't need to be. There are more than enough people that care about more issues than you could count. For every tree and animal there's someone who can care about it. Typically, we only ever understand the first sentence and amend it.

No one cares about anything.

How quaint.

How simple and sweet.

Everyone cares about some things, just not everything. But maybe they don't give a damn about what you do.

And thats a sin.

Did you know culture and society have always been temporary? Yours is too. It doesn't take a war or a die off to end it. Usually its replaced with another set of values and cultural views. Then we go to war over that.

“Did you know that there are people who don't think like you and would thoroughly agree you're the crazy one.

Damn foreigners right?

So you rebut, pointing out what makes them so odd.

Only thing, you just insulted them for something completely normal to them so they return the favor. Now you're both steamed and maybe you understand each other just a little better. But might it be you've only learned they can yell just as loud as you.

Words become screams because its too scary to accept a society and mindset so different than you. Much easier to fight and convert.

To dehumanize.

Who are they to take offense? They must be stupid, no one would eat/say/think such a thing. There's something wrong with them and they must learn the right way to live and the right god to worship. Because somehow you were made the arbiter of mind and soul.

As if you have the right to know and dictate the hearts of man.

Some will hate you for that, and rightfully...right? While others applaud you for trying to make the world more like them. Because thats the right thing to do.

I would like to point out we have as much right to control and interfere with someone as they do with us.

That is, none.

We gave ourselves that right, it was never given, intended, or told we should.

We want to.

And what discussion is there to be had with someone who gave themselves the right to control you?

To them its only the discussion of you changing to fit them and to you, its for them to go the hell away. To impose will.

Why Cain killed Able and why we war. Either you love it, hate it, or go with it.

That mixture is what brings society together, like a recipe for glue. Change the recipe too much and it lets the pieces come apart.

Actual social degradation, otherwise known as social change on the other side of the coin.”

A younger woman with graying hair smiled with satisfaction to herself, saved the document to a small thumb drive, and proceeded to remove it from her computer and plugged it into a a fax machine on the other side of her dirty, but brightly lit study. Looking down to a stack of papers full of numbers to the right of the machine she began a slow, but what she felt, worthwhile process.

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Bob awoke with his usual luster, on a usual Thursday, and at the usual time for a Thursday. With a yawn that spoke only of a man who didn't wish to wake he swung his feet over the side of his bed. Twin, comfort foam mattress with a blue quilted comforter that his grandmother had sewn together five years back that lay over white sheets.

Something odd happened to Bob as he put his feet to the ground and stood up. That odd thing was that he hadn't stood up at all, instead Bob found himself laying on the floor with a quiet, dull pain in his right hip where he'd landed upon his bedroom's beige carpet.

Too surprised to be worried Bob slowly tested his balance once more and found things to be normal. Nothing he could feel in his legs or body to explain why he'd failed to rise the first time. This frightened Bob, less because what had happened but more that is was unusual and would cause his usual schedule to be disrupted more.

Bob wasn't careless. Before anything else had been done that morning he had an appointment scheduled with his doctor.

"This is quite unusual for you Bob." Mary Stimpson, the doctor's receptionist replied to the news, "Now I'm worried as well. Nothing like an unexpected fall to jar the senses."

"Quite so Mary." Bob replied, waiting to hear Mary's long nails clacking of the keyboard come to an end. When the time came, half a minute later she assured him an appointment was available for Friday the next day at twelve thirty.

Bob took a short breath, knowing he would have to ask for an extra hour off of lunch. He had just used the last of his vacation time to take a trip into the country for a short sabbatical. Though Bob was sure his supervisor, Henry Rodam, would understand and give him the time.

Bob had decided against taking his car to work this day despite the rain. So this is why he found himself standing at the nearest bus stop with a few other wage workers at ten minutes to eight, five minutes longer than the schedule on his hand computer stated.

“Protests again.” A middle aged woman in her work uniform sighed with resignation, looking down at her phone.

Bob had read about the protests in the newspaper, he hadn't bothered to remember what they were about. Anger was as common as a breeze these last few years and he had become worn out keeping up with the reasons why.

As usual, there were some he had agreed with, others that confused him, and the vast majority he just had no opinion on. From what he knew of this latest event was the in the last category and if the time presented itself, possibly in the doctor's waiting room tomorrow, he would take some time to understand what would make him late today.