I didn't want to die, so I was writing a story.
Though unfit for the era, I used a pen.
It was pretentious of me.
I played out the story till my spirit drifted far.
It truly was enjoyable becoming an adult.
I didn't want to die, so I was writing a story.
What sort of conclusion would you have wished for?
Would this development elicit a laugh from you,
or bring you to tears,
or would you get angry?
I was writing the imaginary, immaterial you.
These unattainable tactile sensations are beautiful.
They're all fiction, aren't they?
Even so, I wrote
and didn't reach an ending.
Is this how it ends?
Can I truly say I finished writing it?
Spring, summer, autumn, winter, writing
because I don't want to die.
In this room that's good as garbage,
I'm giving life to words.
Yes, I'm a man lacking skill.
And I don't want to die, I don't want to die,
I don't want to die, I don't want to die,
I don't want to die.
I wanted to understand humanity,
so I was writing a story.
Because the me who can't speak righteous words
isn't human.
By putting all the words I wanted to say into writing,
a story was born.
Nobody ever read it, but it was somehow very fun.
I wanted to laugh like a human being,
so I was writing a story.
The flesh on my cheeks had long been worn thin.
Each time I was examined, I grew glad,
because I'm terribly unsightly, aren't it?
Each time I felt the desire to be esteemed,
I brought myself shame.
I hadn't met them in a while, so I wrote some trash -
about my old friends, teachers, my family.
Even the you I used to love back then.
Just doing so lent me a sense of superiority.
For the sake of burying the whole of my life,
for the sake of burying the whole of my solitude,
I wrote days every morning and daytime and night
to the brink of collapse.
But nothing
can satisfy me!
Yes, I'm greedy, aren't I?
I want to give life, I want to give life,
I want to give life, I want to give life,
I want to give life.
To music, to romance,
to movies, I travelled.
The things that became material for narrative
I endlessly received.
After throwing up, I again consume.
Consume, shed tears, throw up, shed tears.
I somewhat seem human now.
For the sake of scorching the whole of my life,
earnestly setting the pen into motion.
For years, for decades, for a lifetime, that was all.
Even though this thing is as useful as crap,
and I know that,
I know that -
I can't let it end this way.
I can't say I finished writing it.
Spring, summer, autumn, winter, writing
because I don't want to die.
In this room that's good as garbage,
writing while weeping my eyes out.
Yes, I'm a man lacking skill.
And I don't want to die, I don't want to die,
I don't want to die,
I don't want to die, I don't want to die,
I want to give life,
I want to give life, I want to give life,
I want to give life,
I want to give life, I don't want to die.
Opinion 8een
あっいーーー
Mar, 27/07/2021 - 00:57
「天翻🍪
@
🐲地覆」