The Way Back Home

お元気ですか。私におもいだしますか。それは全然わからない、ちょっと悲しいな。でも毎日私は段々忘れることができます、だから今が元気です。だけどあなたはすごく酷いね、私に全然連絡をしていません。あなたのために、彼女のために、私を捨てろことができます。どんな人、あなた、私は本当に知っていません。可笑しいですね、私はあなたが全然知っていません。

極めて疲れますよ。

友達ですよね。嘘つき。

私のことが心配しますね。嘘つき。

Even after death, you manage to disappoint me as when you were still a breathing corpse that I shared my soul with while digging my own grave. If a lesson on pride is what you are preaching, then I pray it shall never reach me. Wounded by pride and salvaged by it, it is the foundation of my will to carry on. Should your humility come my way and bend my knees to kneel before your feet, I would rather have my blood bring me a vermillion death than to shed enlightened tears which you are unworthy of.

Truth is temporal and love is just a feeling, but lies are permanant and the flames of indignation burn always with more vigour than the tongues of the Sun. In rage, the tempest wrongs the world and ends up admist a field of shattered porcelain from a time worth glorifying.

I have wronged and I have been wronged. But repentant I am, indifferent you remain, for what is a story to those who cannot savour its intricate discourse? Like the student who pretends to read, no sooner had the last page been grazed that he shuts the book and places it back on the shelf. Its spine may break and the binding may come undone, but what does it matter to one who appreciates not the pages that once made reality worth living? Lost in a tale of self-destruction, perhaps a rift in the illusion was the only way home.


幸せになる。