These Bulls are Men

There was a terrified yell as he and his mount crested the mountaintop. Below them was not the opposite side of the rocky mound, but a sheer cliffside that fell seemingly into nothing. They separated as they plummeted uncontrollably. His arms remained outstretched toward the bull as it acted indifferent toward him. Loudly and pathetically, it continuously rotated and struggled. He looked down and still could see nothing that would catch them. Guiding his descent, he slowly reached one of the bull’s horns. As he grabbed it, the bull bucked and knocked loose his grip. He then noticed the cliffside was no longer visible. In every direction there was only a deep violet. His bull had vanished.

He jolted upright in his bed. It was a dream. A dream he has had more than once. He was drenched with sweat, his bedding was on the floor, and he was parched. He stumbled into the bathroom and ran tap water into his cupped hands. The first few handfuls were haphazardly tossed up to his face, but the few that followed were slowly emptied by his lips. He softly gasped and gave himself a moment to breathe. In the mirror, he saw a man that resembled a bull in no way. He was short, of low musculature, and had a weak jaw. He was not someone you would label ‘masculine’ aside from the facial hair he miraculously managed to grow. The bull in his dream was always heavy and of dense musculature. Nothing could stop it until it met that cliff. As it fell, it had no power. It floundered while he had control. He felt masterful. That means nothing outside of the dream, however. In reality, he was unassuming and unimpressive. He found it interesting yet unfortunate how many men were interested in dominance and possessed a general disregard for most everything else. They are infatuated with the idea of a man dominating something, especially other men. They watch men tackle one another over a ball and watch men beat one another senseless with their bare hands. They revel vicariously for the men who are broken and bleed. He was not envious of this prolific violence within societal tradition. No, he did not hate himself for not emulating this propensity for aggression—he hated the rampant violent culture of that which is masculinity. He relaxed his thoughts. It was late.

There was a stampede of bulls. Hundreds if not thousands. As soon as one left his view, another entered. As he looked around, it occurred to him that he was not riding one this time. He and a few other unknown men were floating above precariously and silently. No sound was produced by the bulls, either, aside from the flapping of the white fabric sheets that adorned them. This fabric was splattered with blood. The bulls looked deranged. Their pupils were dilated, and foamy saliva poured from their mouths. The air was thick with grief. In the direction they traveled—high in the sky—was a red moon, but none of them seemed to acknowledge it. Its existence was a mere coincidence of their directed rage. It sat untouched and omniscient while wholly unsympathetic yet remorseful. As the bulls charged with reckless abandon, a red tinge from the untouchable moon swallowed the blood stained into the sheets that decorated their muscular frames.

Still floating, he watched with disdain, disgust, and disillusionment. How are they worse than he imagined? How are they a spectacle and a disaster? These bulls are mighty, but they do not understand where they are going. They do not understand that the precipice they insatiably domineer has not yet thrown them away like damaged dolls. When this natural monument collapses from beneath them, they will spiral uncontrollably unless caught by a societal net that gives merit to second chances.