Life was painfully beautiful; I found that out a while back.

 

There never seemed to be a ‘why’ anywhere, but I still think. I think I think harder than my head allows me.

 

It hurts. 

 

So I go back to eating my grass.

 

Then I remember that I used to be grass. Or it seemed like it. 

 

I’m starting to think again. I think too hard, and I realize for the some-tienth time this day that I am in some loop, a cycle, or something.

 

It hurts more to point it out, and it feels wrong as well. It’s like I shouldn’t know what life truly is.

 

I may be intelligent. I really think I am. It must be a pain in success. I sometimes bash my head into things. Again, that’s something I can’t explain. But it’s fun. Is that how it feels to have painful success?

 

Another weird question. My head hurts.

 

I go back to eating my grass.

 

Then I remember that I used to be grass. I stop.

 

It must be a loop, right? Ok. So I should stop it with this intelligence.

 

So I’m a bull. I always have been.

 

I don’t know anyone else on this grass, however. 

 

There’s no Well Done. There’s no Congratulations. There’s no Kudos. 

 

My pals are gone. I’m somewhere different. I feel less large and beefy.

 

So I’m different. I’m still a bull. I used to be a better bull.

 

I went from a bull to a bull. There’s some stuff in between, of course.

 

And honestly, the in-betweens were boring. 

 

I just remember something like a small tractor riding towards me. Then I was looking up at the sky—I couldn’t move. 

Now that I think about it, I couldn’t feel anything.

 

No.

 

The thought hurts because, after that, I just remember a lot of movement I couldn’t feel.

 

I was just there.

 

As what, though?

 

My head hurts.

 

I go back to eating my grass.

 

Then I remembered that, eventually, a bull ate me after I floated in the sky, I think, and I became part of the ground. I think. I was looking up again. Before that, there was just a bunch of… grey colors and lots and lots of fire in my vision that I didn’t understand.

 

Is this what happens after death?

 

New Minor always used to tell us that he had a dream… many times a day. 

 

I forgot most of them—wait, no, I think it was some raven that told us that when we die, we go to some, like, paradise.

 

Food was promised in this paradise. There’s lots of grass here.

 

So, simply put, this must be paradise. Nice.

 

I go back to eating my grass. It tastes better now.

 

But why did I see all those things?

 

I may just be special. 

 

These may not be my pals, but I’ll ask.

 

There’s a bull next to me (he has smaller horns than me) who must tell me what they saw.

 

So I stopped chewing and decided to ask, “What happened when you died?”

 

***

 

Surprise, surprise.

 

I am special and intelligent.

 

His answer was simple. He went on about feelings of worthlessness, purpose, stuff about everyone’s soul dying…

 

I forgot all of it, to be honest. These were simple, normal thoughts. 

 

But at the start, he seemed confused and said that he was alive.

 

Rationally, knowing I was intelligent, I disagreed. We’re all dead and currently in paradise.

 

Then, like we animals normally do, we just blah blah blah about society, and yeah, it was clear that he knew nothing about life.

 

So, I’m in paradise? Neat.

 

I think this also means that I don’t need to think of anything.

 

I’m dead, but who cares? I’m in paradise!

 

So I stopped questioning after all that.

 

I go back to eating my grass.