‘I have a dream.’

I can’t even sleep.

We’re all in our stables.

We’re all not stable. That’s something that hasn’t changed despite being in this new body.

It’s very dark, and it seems like no one wants to sleep. Everyone’s just throwing around philosophical stuff, and I’m trying to tune it out. Unlike these people, some animals have to think about more important matters, like how they die and don’t end up in some paradise of sugar and candy. Or something like that. Some animals have to think about why they are in different bodies. Some animals have to suffer in silence.

There’s too much weight on me. I wish it were just the heaps of grass I ate having some effect on me.

Some of this weight also comes from the name this body—and me—were given.

The human female that hung around us spoke gibberish, like all humans. But the only thing I was able to understand was when she said ‘Bessie’ to me a lot of times. I checked it with the other bulls, and I came to a frightening reality:

My name was Bessie. This body…was named Bessie.

I want out. I need out.

I wish she spoke our language so I could ask for a change.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Triple-A is way better; the others were confused when I begged them to call me this.

It didn’t seem much better for them.

The one with the shorter horns is named Dot, apparently. I keep hearing ‘Spot’ and ‘Bess’ get tossed around. I swear I had the misfortune to hear a ‘Milky’ in this very stable.

By asking about my name a while back, I somehow created another philosophical discussion about our lack of agency as animals and how humans give us our names.

I never really cared about our “lack of agency”. It’s idiotic to hate the people who feed you. But now, I think I want to fight for our agency because these names are definitely violations of our worth as animals. Triple-A is excellent for me (it’s the perfect representation of me), but for these animals—whom I do not even know all too well—they deserve better.

Perhaps that’s why they’re depressed.

And surprise, I am too.

Born a Triple-A, reborn a Bessie. Absolute bullocks (I’m still mad about this one).

I say ‘reborn’. I’m thinking again.

Is my past self gone? Because technically, my old bull-self is dead. When I was that bull, my name was Triple-A. Now I’m in this one, named Bessie.

Am I Bessie? No, right? I’m Triple-A, just inside the inferior bull of a Bessie, right? I want to be Triple-A because that’s what I know I am, but to everyone else around me, I’m just a Bessie, right? What matters more: my mind or my body?

What is even right?

My head hurts a lot.

I want to eat grass. I can’t.

So I close my eyes. Sleeping needs no thoughts.

Again, my special brain needs a rest, right?

I now start to listen to the conversation around me that I did not bother paying attention to before. It was just a bunch of noise from all over the place.

“—so yeah, I haven’t found a purpose yet.”

“We never will—”

“We have this same conversation every night, and there’s still no progress—”

“You all reckon that death is better?”

Who’s gonna tell them? It seems like I’m the only one who knows the whole system.

Death seems to be the same as life. However, since my physical body is worse than my last one, it must mean that it’s the opposite of paradise.

Wait. I do remember seeing a lot of fire after I ‘died’.

Is that a bad thing? Does that mean anything? Am I insane?

I’m going insane.

I’ll try to sleep.

Maybe this was just a dream.