text: Your food has started talking, and you don’t like what it has to say. As you stare at the potato on your plate, it tells you that everything on this planet is alive and has a soul. Every animal, every plant, every rock, every cloud, every ocean, yes, but also every hair and every nail and every phone and every laptop and every frying pan and every glass and every shower and every toothbrush and every sock and every shirt, and even every breath of air. And by having a soul, it means that every single thing on this planet has thoughts, dreams, fears, regrets, days of joy and days of sadness. And they all suffer. The ground you stomped on. The TV you yelled at. The bike you ran into a ditch. Even that potato you stabbed with a fork, rolled in oil, and put in the oven. They all feel pain. They value their existence just as much as you value yours, and when they die they are filled with just as much terror as you would be at the moment of your death. This is proven to you beyond a doubt. How is not important. What’s important is you had no idea. You didn’t know when you ate potatoes their soul is torn into a million pieces, each of which feels intense pain of its own, that wind up dying in your stomach and being absorbed by your own soul. You didn’t know that the ground groaned in agony every time you walked on it. You didn’t realize how much it hurt the TV when you smacked it to make it work. You think about going to the bathroom and feel even worse. You stop doing as many things as possible, really. You try not to leave your bed, which you treat as gently as possible, because you know you’re causing it pain as well. When you do, you make sure to step lightly and to avoid as many objects as possible. You try to take only an absolutely necessary number of breaths. Eating is highly problematic. The only way you can choke down any food is with a great deal of tearful apologies. It doesn’t stop your food from screaming the most blood-chilling screams you’ve ever heard with every bite. It is this way in all things. You try your best to do as little harm as possible but there is always pain, usually a lot of pain, no matter what you think of. Your parents ask you what’s wrong and you tell them that you can’t get the screams out of your head, the ones that come with the knowledge that all things have conscious souls. That the very act of living imposes great suffering on everything around you and you can’t really stop it. Your parents scold you for taking so long to tell them, but say that everything will be alright. They take you to the doctor, who tells you your condition is easily curable with a very simple procedure. He gives you a shot. The screaming fades to a dull buzz at the back of your head. It’s still there, you can still hear it if you try. But it’s quiet enough now that you realize you can ignore it. And so, like everyone else who eventually hears the screams, that’s exactly what you do.