I don't know if it's a cruelty that only once we reach the second half (third third?) of our lives do we learn how precious and special it is to be alive. I don't know if it's a cruelty, because there is so little left to enjoy, or if this is a necessary requirement for this appreciation to spring forth. I know that there's no way to convince the young of this truth, (is that the cruelty?) and that it's something all who experience it must arrive at of their own volition.
This week while cleaning, I found my "suicide stash", the bag of narcotics I'd horded, and had once upon a time intended to ingest, ending my bodily experience of this world.
Rather than secreting it into one of the boxes that are even now heading towards my new home, I discarded it. There wasn't even a sniff of hesitancy.
While a time may yet come where impossible circumstances rear their head once again, forcing me to consider my options for a peaceful exit, at the moment I'm coasting on the fact that rather than give in last time, I chose to be brave and do the scariest thing I've ever done. If I did it once, I believe I can do it again.
As I said, life is precious.
For fuck's sake, live.
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