Darkover
Archangel
- Jul 29, 2021
- 5,525
No one asks to be born. No one signs a contract agreeing to suffer, age, struggle, and die. And yet here we are—dragged into existence by the choices of others, forced to endure the fallout of a decision we never consented to. Life is not a gift. It's a gamble. Worse—it's a gamble with someone else's chips. Procreation is the act of betting everything on the life of another, with no way to refund the pain if it goes wrong. It's a god-like decision made by people with no god-like control. And the ones who suffer most are the ones who had no say.
The moment you're born, you're sentenced. Your lungs burn for air, your body starts needing constant care, and the world around you begins to make demands. You didn't consent to this. You were thrown in. Now it's your responsibility to survive, to perform, to navigate a hostile planet with a decaying body and a fragile mind. You suffer injuries, hunger, heartbreak, and decay—not because you chose to risk it all, but because someone else did it on your behalf.
That is the brutal truth of birth: someone else rolls the dice, and you're the one who bleeds if it lands wrong.
Having children means gambling with the welfare of someone else. It means conducting Frankenstein experiments you can't control, in which someone else pays the price. You bring a new life into a chaotic world—flawed, unstable, violent—without knowing who this person will become, what they will suffer, how they will break. You don't know if they'll be born with chronic pain, mental illness, or paralyzing trauma. You don't know if they'll want to die by age 15, or be crushed under the weight of poverty, rejection, or meaningless labor. But you gamble anyway.
To create life is to play god. But unlike a god, you have no control over outcomes. You can't guarantee safety, joy, or justice. You can't promise love, health, or peace. You bring a person into being without their permission, and then hope it works out. That's not love. That's reckless. That's insanity dressed up as tradition.
No one is born into a clean slate. You're born into a broken world—into systems you didn't design and can't opt out of. Capitalism, debt, war, climate collapse—this is your inheritance. You must work to live, and often suffer to work. You are disposable, replaceable, and constantly judged by your productivity. You exist in a world where rent is higher than wages, where depression is epidemic, where nature is dying, and where connection is more digital than human.
You didn't make these systems. You don't benefit from them. But you are forced to survive within them—or die trying.
Reproduction isn't just biological—it's psychological. Parents pass on their fears, their expectations, their wounds. Most never heal before having kids. They dump their unfinished business into new, innocent vessels. The child becomes the extension, the projection, the emotional caretaker. You're raised not as a free being, but as a reflection of your parents' unresolved selves.
Maybe they love you. Maybe they try. But love doesn't undo damage. Intentions don't erase trauma. The price is still yours to carry.
The world is burning. Literally. The air is poisoned, the oceans are dying, and ecosystems are collapsing. You were born into this mess, and now you're told it's your job to fix it. You're expected to find meaning in a collapsing biosphere while corporations and governments extract the last drops of life from the Earth. And while you're doing that, you must also stay positive, find love, succeed, and not fall apart.
This is what you inherit when someone else chooses to procreate: a future on fire and no map out.
Even if you want to reject this imposed existence, you're punished. Talk about suicide, and you're pathologized. Refuse to participate, and you're labeled lazy or broken. Society forces you to keep going, no matter the cost, and condemns anyone who questions the morality of forced existence. Opting out of life is treated as a defect, even though entering life without consent is treated as normal.
You're trapped. Not just by your biology, but by social shame, legal barriers, and emotional blackmail.
Let's be clear. Creating life is not a neutral act. It is not inherently good. It is a high-stakes decision with irreversible consequences for someone else. And when that decision is made carelessly—or even lovingly, but naively—it can lead to lifetimes of suffering, confusion, and despair. The one who makes the choice never pays the full price. The one who is born does.
To procreate is to gamble with someone else's mind, body, and future. It is to conduct a Frankenstein experiment with no ethical oversight. It is to play god with human lives while having none of the power or foresight that a god would require.
And the child? They become the collateral damage of hope, of tradition, of vanity, of loneliness, of unexamined desire. They grow up paying the price for a choice they never made—a price that can include anything from chronic suffering to early death.
In a sane world, this would be unthinkable. In ours, it's just another Tuesday.
The moment you're born, you're sentenced. Your lungs burn for air, your body starts needing constant care, and the world around you begins to make demands. You didn't consent to this. You were thrown in. Now it's your responsibility to survive, to perform, to navigate a hostile planet with a decaying body and a fragile mind. You suffer injuries, hunger, heartbreak, and decay—not because you chose to risk it all, but because someone else did it on your behalf.
That is the brutal truth of birth: someone else rolls the dice, and you're the one who bleeds if it lands wrong.
Having children means gambling with the welfare of someone else. It means conducting Frankenstein experiments you can't control, in which someone else pays the price. You bring a new life into a chaotic world—flawed, unstable, violent—without knowing who this person will become, what they will suffer, how they will break. You don't know if they'll be born with chronic pain, mental illness, or paralyzing trauma. You don't know if they'll want to die by age 15, or be crushed under the weight of poverty, rejection, or meaningless labor. But you gamble anyway.
To create life is to play god. But unlike a god, you have no control over outcomes. You can't guarantee safety, joy, or justice. You can't promise love, health, or peace. You bring a person into being without their permission, and then hope it works out. That's not love. That's reckless. That's insanity dressed up as tradition.
No one is born into a clean slate. You're born into a broken world—into systems you didn't design and can't opt out of. Capitalism, debt, war, climate collapse—this is your inheritance. You must work to live, and often suffer to work. You are disposable, replaceable, and constantly judged by your productivity. You exist in a world where rent is higher than wages, where depression is epidemic, where nature is dying, and where connection is more digital than human.
You didn't make these systems. You don't benefit from them. But you are forced to survive within them—or die trying.
Reproduction isn't just biological—it's psychological. Parents pass on their fears, their expectations, their wounds. Most never heal before having kids. They dump their unfinished business into new, innocent vessels. The child becomes the extension, the projection, the emotional caretaker. You're raised not as a free being, but as a reflection of your parents' unresolved selves.
Maybe they love you. Maybe they try. But love doesn't undo damage. Intentions don't erase trauma. The price is still yours to carry.
The world is burning. Literally. The air is poisoned, the oceans are dying, and ecosystems are collapsing. You were born into this mess, and now you're told it's your job to fix it. You're expected to find meaning in a collapsing biosphere while corporations and governments extract the last drops of life from the Earth. And while you're doing that, you must also stay positive, find love, succeed, and not fall apart.
This is what you inherit when someone else chooses to procreate: a future on fire and no map out.
Even if you want to reject this imposed existence, you're punished. Talk about suicide, and you're pathologized. Refuse to participate, and you're labeled lazy or broken. Society forces you to keep going, no matter the cost, and condemns anyone who questions the morality of forced existence. Opting out of life is treated as a defect, even though entering life without consent is treated as normal.
You're trapped. Not just by your biology, but by social shame, legal barriers, and emotional blackmail.
Let's be clear. Creating life is not a neutral act. It is not inherently good. It is a high-stakes decision with irreversible consequences for someone else. And when that decision is made carelessly—or even lovingly, but naively—it can lead to lifetimes of suffering, confusion, and despair. The one who makes the choice never pays the full price. The one who is born does.
To procreate is to gamble with someone else's mind, body, and future. It is to conduct a Frankenstein experiment with no ethical oversight. It is to play god with human lives while having none of the power or foresight that a god would require.
And the child? They become the collateral damage of hope, of tradition, of vanity, of loneliness, of unexamined desire. They grow up paying the price for a choice they never made—a price that can include anything from chronic suffering to early death.
In a sane world, this would be unthinkable. In ours, it's just another Tuesday.
