Italian Versiom here.
The more I go on. The more I see that the life I live is not all that unique, that too many people live the same mess as me, that too many people become succubus of their own anger.
But, while they support him, I tell them not to do it, to save himself … but in the end, I forget what is the right thing, I forget because I no longer understand, in the midst of these stories …
In the end, what did I want? What was the right thing? I forget it, while everything is raining outside, and it thunders.
I no longer understand it, lost in all these doubts, this anger, this intolerance.
I am a person who feels empathy, a person’s anger affects me, especially if I find it very similar to mine.
You change, you don’t want to change, you run away, you go crazy, you forget what you were, what you want.
And I disappear, forgetting what I wanted … in the end you, what did you want? I never understood it. I never understood what I felt, I thought I understood it, in the end …
With nothing in my hand, looking at what remains in my crumbling hands, I have nothing in them. It becomes all dust, it becomes all smoke, something that cannot be grasped.
What do you make, what do you keep? In hand, only ash.
Tell me, what is it for, we are just crazy bumping our heads against the walls, which do not break down, do not exceed, do not jump, do not go around.
No, this wall is too high, too long, too strong.
Do we have it against a person, against a situation, or against our life? We would like to change everything, from A to Z.
We don’t choose many things, and when we do, everything gets out of hand.
We die, we cry, we are alone.
We get tired of people, we go crazy, we don’t want anything more, if not just one thing, the one we can’t have.
Avoja all these attempts, cocks and decks. Nothing, it is useless. It almost seems like you suck, without knowing why. And you remain alone.
And there remains a big void in the stomach, the hunger that cannot be satisfied.
The hunger to have those things, those things that fill the void. The more I go on, the less I want to be satisfied. I have failed too much to be satisfied, I want to succeed, we want to succeed.
And it is this intolerance, which then drives us crazy.
And then, in the end, what’s the right thing? Now that I see other people suffering like me … helpless, helpless, but who wish they could do something about it. And I, I have no choice but to close my eyes, trying to forget and not hear, all this noise
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