life

Just found a phenomenal poem. It struck a chord with me. Resonately.

And I'm not afraid to use it.

Sister Helen Kelley reminds us, just like that charming Scottish narco addict in the Irvine Welsh novel:

Choose life

only that and always,

and at whatever risk

To let life leak out,

to let it wear away by

the mere passage of time,

to withhold

giving it and spreading it

is to choose

nothing.

Welsh agrees. Well, for the most part. His is more a litergy of consumerism:

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 mortage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a 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, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself.