On choosing life.

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up rats you spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.

Choose life.

 

I want to choose life. I want to walk the streets knowing that I chose life. I want to breathe in the air and feel it rush to my extremities, feel it on my face, and not shy away from it, but to push myself into it. I want to greet friends and family with smiles and hugs. I want to share laughter, take bad photos of each other, fuck around, make inconsequential mistakes. I want for the world not to seemingly depend on how I’m feeling. I want the weight off my shoulders. I want to run, sprint, get tired, but not from mental exhaustion. I want to go to bed at night knowing that I had a good day, and that tomorrow is not something to be dreaded. I want to destroy all the work I have to do. I want to show everyone how good I am, and I want to remind myself how good I am.  I want to want, and to be wanted. I want to play video games, and be a geek, and not give a fuck. I want to feel happy, and lose this cloud that looms above my head. I want to sleep, eat, exercise, drink water, talk to someone, spend time with friends and family, find myself. Feel better.

I chose my future.

I believe I chose life.