>I don't know how you come up with this stuff :p
It is my burder, I guess.
>I guess in most cases people will let you know if you're doing right by them?
Well, right by the conscious part as you understand it. But yes, I get your meaning, some cases are fairly clear.
>is it kind to leave it to struggle, burn and perhaps die, or to give it a helping hoof?
>Or, kindness = WWFD, What Would Fluttershy Do :3
I'm sure Fluttershy would help. Implicit in that is the belief that it would be better to die later than sooner, better to die in some unknown way tomorrow than a known way today.
I was a part of an online community of people who rehabilitated orphans baby squirrels. These people put a lot of time, energy, and money into raising the young to release when they became squirrel adolescents and "wild up." After release, most won't survive into adulthood, and every year there's another crop of orphans -- nobody can save them all. Many wildlife rehabiatition places simply euthanize baby squirrels if someone brings them one (the squirrel rehabbers get really worked up over this). The advice on South Dakota's Games Fish and Parks website about wildlife is, "if you care, leave it there." Many people with good intentions end up killing baby animals.
I just don't know anymore.
>an age role.
Judith Butler would like that idea. Age performativity she'd call it. :)
>young of...outlook; a 'simple', optimistic mind, still love things for kids etc.
Ah, you will avoid become a Cranky Doodle Donkey by the power of your volition. Perhaps.
Wish I could believe it were so simple...
"Peter," she said, faltering, "are you expecting me to fly away with you?"
"Of course; that is why I have come." He added a little sternly, "Have you forgotten that this is spring cleaning time?"
She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring cleaning times pass.
"I can't come," she said apologetically, "I have forgotten how to fly."
"I'll soon teach you again."
"O Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me."
She had risen; and now at last a fear assailed him. "What is it?" he cried, shrinking.
"I will turn up the light," she said, "and then you can see for yourself."
For almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter was afraid. "Don't turn up the light," he cried.
She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but they were wet-eyed smiles.
Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew back sharply.
"What is it?" he cried again.
She had to tell him.
"I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long ago."
"You promised not to!"
"I couldn't help it.”
But perhaps we need not all be Wendy...