how much choice do we really have? are our lives closer at heart to multiple choice tests than writing freeform poetry? if you're at gunpoint, and someone tells you to do something, sure it's easy to say you didn't have much of a choice. but how much options are there for the rest of us who don't have pistols on our heads? i have free will. that's one thing. but doesn't our fundamental need for self-preservation render whatever concept of choice we have in life merely cosmetic? even if all i had to plug this self-preserving trend was to die, how much of an option can you say that is? i counted - one.

i wish i could live a freeform poetry life. the kind of life whose paper by default has no lines, where the only predictable thing is inconsistent anarchy. but maybe i'm not ready to live that kind of life. maybe i wasn't created with the right infrastructure to handle an existence that has no guidance whatsoever, no models, no precedent, no narrowing down of possibilities. so what if i'm not entirely chuffed because every once in a while, all the possible options, including death, look like compromised solutions? maybe it's only because i'm an immature entity, unable to process the infinity that comes with a blank page.

maybe that's why i'm still checking boxes.