You gave me a sheet of paper. Words printed in black ink. You told me to read it out. Read the page.
The words on that page were mocking me. They were cruel and shameless. They showed the truth in plain and simple, black and white, ink on paper.
That I'm screwed. Every "option" is unbearable. Impossible. Horrible. Hopeless.
It was a sheet designed to show my options. My choices. Make me feel like I could control something, any aspect of my life.
My choices were shit and equally shit. Not really choices. Just things I had to do to survive.
And I say that word, "survive," lightly. It doesn't feel like survival to me. It feels like I'm already rotting away in hell.
Choice. A luxury of the priviledged. Something that comes second to survival. Second to breathing. And if it's hard to breathe, difficult to survive, then you're not choosing. You don't have choices. You just have bare survival with no value and no real hope.
It's horrible. It's really, so, so bad.
It makes you want to die. But your instincts are to do those shitty things, make those compulsory "choices" so that your matter stays animated. Even if you consciously don't want to. It's what you do.
Because you don't have a choice. Not even that one.
Sometimes you think that you might, and that makes you feel better long enough to make that next compulsory survival "choice," just the prospect of the opportunity of autonomy over your own life. But soon enough, it's gone again. Because you can't really do that.
Remember? You're in hell. You're already rotting away. In a body made of animated torture.
You can't choose, not really. And choosing is the only thing that could give you a glimmer of hope.
So as long as you're self-aware, there is no hope.
You can't choose. You're not really surviving. You're just staying animated.
When you're really dead inside.
