Love is a form of prejudice. You love what you need, you love what makes you feel good, you love what is convenient. How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you’ll never meet them.
Or perhaps is is that time doesn’t heal wounds at all, perhaps that is the biggest lie of them all, and instead what happens is that each wound penetrates the body deeper and deeper until one day you find that the sheer geography of your bones - the angle of your hips, the sharpness of your shoulders, as well as the luster of your eyes, the texture of your skin, the openness of your smile - has collapsed under the weight of your griefs.
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 suit on hire purchased in a range of fucking fabrics. choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on 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, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life.