i choose again
The path I didn’t unchoose.
listen to the shirt:
i choose again
"I choose again" it’s like you’re standing in a familiar dark corner, a bit of a teeth-grit kind of resignation that you keep choosing the same damn scene because it’s the only one you see....
- $40.00
"I choose again" it’s like you’re standing in a familiar dark corner, a bit of a teeth-grit kind of resignation that you keep choosing the same damn scene because it’s the only one you see. It’s that mix of frustration and a sort of gritty, rough-edged poetry that says: “I’m picking what I know again, and it kind of pisses me off that I’m stuck in this same loop.” It’s like being boxed into your own choices, the ones that became routine. And there’s that tough, slightly raw poetic tone to it: I’m choosing the same thing again because it’s all I know, and yeah, it stings a bit, but that’s just how it is.
This isn’t about breaking the pattern. It’s about recognizing it — fully, bitterly, and maybe for the first time, without flinching.
I Choose Again doesn’t promise change. It doesn’t ask for healing. It begins in a place you’ve been before — that familiar, dull ache of picking the same damn thing because it’s the only thing you see. Not because it feels good. But because it’s known.
The storyline unfolds in quiet, deliberate loops.
First comes the tension — the internal tug-of-war between what you wish you’d choose and what your body already moved toward.
Then, a slow confrontation with the ways this pattern has become part of you — stitched into your habits, your logic, even your language.
You start naming the repetition not as failure, but as survival. As a kind of bruised wisdom: “I knew what this was. I chose it anyway.”
As the conversation deepens, you’re asked not to escape — but to observe. To see the sharp edges of routine, the half-hearted justifications, the false hope that maybe this time will be different.
And yet, within all that, there’s a strange clarity: even if the loop holds you, you’re not asleep in it anymore.
You're awake. You're paying attention. You're walking back into the same scene — but now you’re looking straight at it.
There’s no grand conclusion here. No uplifting arc.
Just the gritty truth of repetition… and the quiet power of finally owning it.
I Choose Again doesn’t promise change. It doesn’t ask for healing. It begins in a place you’ve been before — that familiar, dull ache of picking the same damn thing because it’s the only thing you see. Not because it feels good. But because it’s known.
The storyline unfolds in quiet, deliberate loops.
First comes the tension — the internal tug-of-war between what you wish you’d choose and what your body already moved toward.
Then, a slow confrontation with the ways this pattern has become part of you — stitched into your habits, your logic, even your language.
You start naming the repetition not as failure, but as survival. As a kind of bruised wisdom: “I knew what this was. I chose it anyway.”
As the conversation deepens, you’re asked not to escape — but to observe. To see the sharp edges of routine, the half-hearted justifications, the false hope that maybe this time will be different.
And yet, within all that, there’s a strange clarity: even if the loop holds you, you’re not asleep in it anymore.
You're awake. You're paying attention. You're walking back into the same scene — but now you’re looking straight at it.
There’s no grand conclusion here. No uplifting arc.
Just the gritty truth of repetition… and the quiet power of finally owning it.
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