I refuse, with as little restraint as one may have, and with a fervor that borders on extremist religiosity, to live the rest of my life with as much fear, anger, and insecurity, that I have lived the first part of it. I will not go through life distrusting other people; I will not go through life with the assumption of disappointment and an expectation of a lack of “real meaning”; I will not go through this life in a box of my own making, fashioned by my own hands, made of materials stripped out of my flesh and my soul, and sealed with my blood.
I won’t do it. I refuse. My life is worth more than that — my life simply is more than that — and I won’t hide it away in the dark, suffocating it, any longer.