Резултати претраге

Omražen samim životom

'Nemoj reći da želiš umreti.'
'Živi dalje bez odustajanja!'
...Kako je glupo reći da su pesme sa takvim tekstom tačne.
 
Iskreno, ne bi me ni malo bilo briga da umrem, ali bih bila poprilično tužna kada bi ljudi oko mene umrli.
Pretpostavljam ta je to neka vrsta ega, koji ide: 'Jer mi se jednostavno ne bi svidelo.'
 
Ne mareći da li će stranci živeti ili ne,
I mrzeti nekog drugog sada izgleda kao neka vrsta mode,
Ali ipak 'Živi mirno'?
Kako bi to zaista bilo predivno...
 
Sa druge strane ekrana, neko umire,
Jadikajući kako neko drugi peva,
Pod uticajem toga, mlad dečko
je pobegao noseći nož.
 
Mi smo omraženi samim životom.
Potiskujući vrednosti i ego, kao i uvek, tako vrlo jednostavno emitujemo pesme o
Želji da ubijemo nekog preko radija.
Mi smo omraženi samim životom.
Mi koji nepromišljeno kažemo da želimo umreti,
I bezbrižno gledamo na život, smo omraženi od njega.
 
Nemam novca, i tako kroz dan opet, pevam pesme koje hvale indolentnost.
Još uvek ne shvatajući smisao života, dolazim do epifanije da je besmisleno i udahnem.
Da li su ove povrede u redu da se iskažu kroz reči kao 'Usamljen sam?'
Noseći ništa osim tvrdoglavosti, danas opet spavam sama na krevetu.
 
Mi koji smo bili samo mladi počinjemo da se menjamo u mlade odrasle.
Stareći, jednog dana ćemo istrunuti kao opalo lišće, bez ijedne duše u svetu koja je znala za naše postojanje...
Dobijanje besmrtnog tela, i življenje celog našeg postojanja bez umiranja...
...Samo sanjarim o ovakvim naučno fantastičnim situacjama.
 
Ne bi me ni malo bilo briga da umrem,
Ali ljudi oko mene me žele živu,
Živeti noseći takve protivrečnosti... mislim da će (neko) vikati na mene.
 
Stvari koje su 'ispravne' treba ostati 'ispravne'.
'Ako ne želiš umreti, onda živi.'
Ako ćemo završiti tužni i ako je to u redu,
Onda se moraš smejati sam zauvek.
 
Mi smo omraženi samim životom.
Bez shvatanja smisla radosti, samo mrzimo ruku koju nam je život dao
I proklinjujući našu prošlost.
Mi smo omraženi samim životom.
Mi koji jednostavno previše volimo ideju reči 'zbogom', bez ikakvog znanja pravog rastanka, smo omraženi samim životom.
 
Radost, rastanci, ljubav, i prijateljstvo,
Sve su to dobra koja se mogu kupiti novcem... u okviru šala napravljene od strane komičnih snova.
Možda ću umreti sutra znaš,
Na kraju bi sve moglo biti uzaludno.
Jutra i noći, proleće i jesen,
nepromenljivo, neko negde umire.
Ne trebaju mi snovi a čak ni sutra,
Ako bi živeo onda je to sve što mi treba.
Da, to je zapravo o čemu želim da pevam.
 
Mi smo omraženi samim životom.
Na kraju, svi ćemo ipak umreti.
Ti ćeš, ja ću, jednog dana svi ćemo istrunuti kao opalo lišće.
Ali bez obzira, mi živimo mahnito-
Noseći naše živote na ramenima, mahnito, mi živimo-
Ubijati, boriti se, smejati se, nositi sve to na ramenima,
Živeći, živeći, živeći, živeći, samo živi.
 

Man Lacking Skill

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,
morning, daytime, nighttime, days - I wrote them
to the brink of collapsing.
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.
 
Music. Romance.
I travelled to the movies.
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 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 don't want to die!