feel the futility?

i come from the wrong stock.

we are chicken, not beef.
we are a dime a dozen.
boiled down, we are too scared of the world and of ourselves to fly. rather, we keep our heads to the ground and scratch and peck our way to old age.

but to butcher another food analogy:
perhaps, if there is any beef in us, it is dairy, not angus. our purpose, our function, is to give a little bit everyday until we are dried up – too old to contribute any further and are then forgotten. we are branded numbered cogs in whatever industry we are herded into. we are not raised as prizes, set apart to roam and graze, while the world waits eagerly by for our one grand gesture that will be sold off by the pound.

we are companions, like my mother's milk cow, jenny...
not blue-ribbon champs, like my cousin's annual Sir Loin.

if a cow ceases to be milked, it ceases to produce, and the trend of my kind is that when we are done working, we are simply done. retirement is not our goal, it is our death sentence. maybe i need to stop expecting to be anything more than i am already, anything more than all the bulls and heifers before me said i would be, and learn to be ok with giving a little more every day to something that could be done by anyone else.

i come from the wrong stock,
but then again... the grass is always greener, right?