There is only the illusion of choice.
There is only illusion everywhere here.
You, me, your words, mine, all of it.
The greatest saint, even if he has sacrificed a thousand times all that he held most dear, even his life itself, for love of others, for that of a God, or for a noble ideal, remains a prisoner of death and rebirth if he has not understood that all is a childish game, empty of reality, a useless illusion of shadows which his own mind projects on the infinite screen of the Void.
When you are done playing these games with yourself let me know. No one else here cares to know the truth. It hits them like water of a ducks back. They are illusions.