I went for an HIV test yesterday for no particular reason. One could say it was a disruption, a road bump to a lackluster life with monotonous undertones of a routine infused with a depressing lifestyle - and I would wholeheartedly agree to that very statement. With no expectations of either result, one is stripped to the bone with intentions to relive a life worth living. Although it would be rather absurd to expect anything other than a negative result, a part of me, and I say this with great dishonour, was expecting a positive one. Why? For that ice cold slap on the face that needed to remind me of a life I had to and needed to live. After all, this is not the life I want to lead nor is it the life I’d choose to have anyone else lead. And yes, one could also interrupt with their opinion of how I’m nothing more than a spoilt brat who allows no one else to intrude upon his comfort zone, and again, I would agree. But that is me and the way I haven assembled myself; not too far from a depressing routine, but close enough to his comfort zone. Unfortunately however, there stems a very thin line between the both of these vast and uninhabited universes, neither of which I am able to venture within. Why? Because that ice cold slap is yet to slam at full force within me, awaken me, and perhaps give me a reason worth living. I live for my family, for friends, the good times, but I don’t live for myself - and that’s what stops me from ending my life. The repercussions that come with that choice, the choice to end your life, or in a very absurd and odd way, to live, serve no one’s interests but your very own. And that’s why I was hoping it would be positive, for that interest that serves no one else but me, because I’m greedy, and it would be rather ignorant of me if I were to say that is the case with all humans, but I am. I am goddammit, and it upsets me to my dying grave, but nothing I say or do will alter that fact, except death. Death is the answer, and worry not loved ones, I would never take my own life because it is not my own, but god’s, and who else but him has the power to take it?
A sample of my blood was taken, mixed with a liquid and just as I was inquiring on whether or not the results come out in the same form of that of a pregnancy test with a ‘+’ or ‘-‘, one dot appeared and I was congratulated. All smiles and courtesy as if the right to life was something to look forward to, and in spite of the fact my brain was fully aware of that, my body jolted with euphoric glee. I had a chance at life, woopdie-fucking-do, how splendid. And that should be the case with any sane person, but if I’ve come to learn something, anything with time, it’s that I’m not sane, not a result of a birth defect, but a result of life. So did I have a chance at life - I mean, is a life not worth living a life? No, it’s not, and if anything, no different to death. So let’s continue to painstakingly mask the fact that we’ve been dead, and for a fucking long time too. We’re not living, this isn’t life.
We’re dead, all of us.