“Comprehend that choice is the one division that relates to division, itself. As much as we choose, we choose for diversity’s sake. Diversity. The word that belongs to the slave-master. The connoisseur of differing flavors who manages to discover merely his favorite, not the beloved to which sprouted from someplace beyond his knowledge.”– Modern Romanticism
Nothing we loved, was ever chosen. It is love that never pertains to choice. We cannot speak of love, when we constantly speak of choice. We are not allowed to do so, unless our desire is to intentionally contradict ourselves.
Love is unchosen. A beloved is unchosen. No loved one is chosen.
It is because a choice is something that stems across to life’s destruction. That is because in the relation to choice upon what we are meant to be responsible for, of who we love, we cannot say it is our choice to care for them. To say it was merely a choice, pertains to the idea that such a supposedly responsible person had another. As in, they had another choice, outside of the care for another that should pertain to having no choice, at all.
If a person says to someone else, “It was my choice to care for you,” it is to mean they had to debate on them either caring for that person, or to do something else. This would mean their act of care for that person was not as important as to be not ever a choice. If a person must admit that it was their choice to care for another, then there is no love for that person. There is none, for love should be as instantaneous as to require no contemplation, upon what to do.
For choices to be what is not love, makes a decision relate always to death. We dispose of a life, for we could not love that person who we selected to die. We therefore divide from ourselves, or from other loved ones, that person selected to be slaughtered.
That is a choice.
That is division.