Work Text:
Is there something that can force it to make sense?
Does it have meaning or is coherence a mess?
We're just a span between our birth and our death.
We're specks of dust or maybe something less.
The past is nothing that we can foresee:
what came to be and not – are all the same.
The future is a string of memories.
The present is a dream that's hardly sane.
What if, in fact, I am somebody's dream?
They will wake up and I will disappear.
I am already just a puppet on a string,
this realistic fantasy inspires only fear.
Who am I now? What box to put me in?
There is no greater good or senseless evil.
Somebody thinks I'm fine and haven't sinned,
and others couldn't care less, it is a given.
There is no difference between what's good and bad:
there are nuances and no black nor white,
it's such a mess, it's such a tangled net –
it screws your feelings, hearing and sight.
Who am I now? What destiny awaits us?
Why am I here? Whose dream is full of me?
Why should I try again after a failure?
Is it a blessing or the price of my free will?
If I am dead – won't be the first finale,
when I come back – won't be the last beginning.
Life's an illusion, dreams act as its pilings,
and faith is just a mere go-between.
We are remainders of the hazy past,
our lives are fake, we are imaginary.
Don't know why I exist – they say I must,
I do not think that it is fair.