The Blue Book

You want to live. You want things. You have ambitions, plans, ideas, and aspirations.
No?
Liar. Don't say you don't. If you had a choice, a real choice, no tricks, no joke, if you actually had a choice you would always choose life. Unless you're in constant excruciating pain with no relief, living is better than dying. Especially since living is just so much more fun. So unpredictable, so many options.
You have a plan, don't you? It doesn't have to be a good one, or go that far, it can be what you plan to do in the next five minutes, for example, are you sitting right now? You can get up. Are you standing? You can walk away. Are you grim right now? You can smile. You don't have to, I'm just saying you can, and I'm saying wanting to live isn't ugly or being afraid to die isn't going to brand you as a coward. You want to live. I do to. It's what were supposed to do, until it's not. However, somewhere along the line, living wasn't enough, it had to mean something. It had to have a point, a finish line, a final answer. The only important question is, do you need it? Or is it enough, choosing to live?
What I want with this story is for you to reconsider what it is and isn't to be human, what makes you worthy or worthless, what it means to live life loved or loveless, what it says to be cherished or discarded and what you need to deserve respect, what fundamentals do you require as a being so that you won't be pursued and humiliated, rethink everything, turn it over and over inside your head until it makes no sense, and then start all over again. What is the definition of being human? Are we ugly beasts by nature and any actions which strays from that is an anomaly, or can we, in fact, aspire to be more? More kind? More genuine? More forgiving? Are we men and monsters, women and witches, or simply people?

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As always, grand delight I wish with this story of mine. //thefrozenosviva.