I love the world, even though I've subconsciously made it my enemy.

Why can't we go back to the memories that made us blind?
Ignorant, but at least we were happy back then.

Now we know everything and we get sad easily.
Sad over what?
Over the things that were lost from us?
The things that are now lost, are softly remembered as a dream.
A dream that we can never get back again.

It will never come back.
We can't go back.

I have no freedom.
I have no freedom from the beginning to the end.
The only control I have is what I write through the pen.

The end will come, and one can only wish it's the end of life.
It is worse.
It is the raging war of pain that will fall upon you.
The day, the moment that will last for what seems like a lifetime.
You'll cry, scream, not care, see things, remember things,
You'll be introduced to the new beginning of pain.
You'll be utterly Insane and it will all be from one being.
You can try to run but you can't avoid that the end is on its way.

I wish I could sell my soul to freedom and not to the big machines
But if I want to get what I need,
I can't be allowed to be free.

I can dream but it'll all be a made-up scene
Nothing real can be what I want.