Three choices I don't have
The admission price to the game of life is facing death.
I have no interest in whether I am clinically depressed;
No interest in artificially altering my mood to be more socially acceptable even if I am.
I have no cries for help in me – I have felt this way for 30 years.
So many things could get me anyway, I refuse to make Death's job any easier.
I just want to consider the choice I don't want:
whether to carry on or kill myself,
in contrast with the much fairer choice that nobody has:
whether I would rather have this life or have never existed.
Unexpectedly the choice I don't have is strangely comforting.
There is a third choice also not available:
whether I would prefer someone else's life,
but not much comfort in that.
As the passenger flight from Rio to Paris falls out of the sky
or I stand on the 105th floor of the burning world trade centre considering
whether to choke on fumes and burn to death or fall 105 storeys
I consider the choice between this life and non-existence
And my surprising conclusion
even in the face of death
Poetry by Andrew Bindon
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Written on 2009-12-15 at 15:27
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