Living is Optional
I said this to a friend of mine and he instantly got defensive.
“Living is not optional,” he said. “What about your responsibilities to your family? They depend on you. That makes your living non-negotiable.”
Another friend jumped in.
“Responsibilities are a social construct,” he argued. “But think about how devastated they’d be.”
He paused. “No, living is not optional.”
Well, I didn’t say that if living is optional then one should die.
Why do we jump to conclusions like that? Why do we skip the thinking part? Why do billions of neurons stay idle while we sprint to the end of the thought? I’ll never understand.
Anyway, living is optional.
I stand by it.
But let me sell the idea properly.
First, let’s define living.
Living is staying alive. Experiencing… life. The good parts, the bad parts, and mostly the mediocre parts. Living, by corollary, means not dying. Which means not staying alive, not experiencing anything—no good, no bad, no mediocre. I don’t think there’s a simpler definition.
Now, what do I mean by optional?
Usually when we use that word, it’s attached to something sarcastic, the “less desired” option. I don’t know how or why that became the norm, but thankfully, that’s not what I mean here.
What I mean is: living is the more desirable option.
Living is optional, and it’s the option I choose every single day. Just like billions of others. Living is an option, and I choose it. I look the thought of death in the face and say, “No thanks. I’ve got another day in me.”
On edgier days, it’s more like: “Not today, bitch.”
Living is optional, I repeat.
And it’s the option I choose. Not because of responsibilities, not because people would be heartbroken, not because of guilt or fear or duty.
I choose it because I can.
Because natural selection and entropy somehow conspired to make me one of their few self-reflecting creations. I am nature studying, observing, and critiquing itself. A product of millions of years of one of the strongest forces in the universe: the indomitable human spirit.
Through beds of flowers and through streams of spit, it has carried strong men and women. And even though the voice of Marcus Aurelius whispers “memento mori” in my ear whenever I get proud—you are mortal—I still thank the gods that today isn’t that day.
When I was 21, I promised myself that when death comes, it won’t be by my own hand. I echo that promise today and every day. For when death comes, it will meet me grinning, pointing me toward the gates of Valhalla. I won’t go down without a fight—even if the fight is with my own self.
And I will emerge victorious.
And I will choose to live.
For living, it is optional.
