A little life

I know what a failure I am in life, and thanks to you, I know it even better.
Everyone keeps reiterating it again and again.
What is life? And what is death?
I don’t know anymore.
I am on fire.
Is this not hell incarnate?
If it isn’t, then it indeed isn’t paradise, either.
Living this way is tiresome and lonesome, as the voices plague you day and night.
If I watch something for a while, they are at the curb.
At least for a while, I forget.
However, it isn’t the way of man. This is just what they call wasting away time.
We need to do something with life, to become something in life; only then are you worth being alive.
Only then are you worth feeding and raising?
Or else the question arises, why are you like this?
They continue, I did not birth you and raise you to be like this.
If I answer, I did not ask to be born; they wail and call me an ingrate.
You raised me, fed me, and expected from me; it was all about you and this wretched society, and yet you say I did all of this only for you.
If I don’t flow along with these fish in the river, I am not required, even thrown away.
The capitalism, the fame, the name, the language, the propriety, living without it is like sentencing yourself to living death according to the top-tiered socialites.
It’s only practical as fortune has power, it can give life, or it can starve to death.
If you want me to become a cog, I’ll do so.
I’ll never talk to you again.
After all, everything falls on deaf ears.
And when I am too tired, I hope the lord is merciful, takes away this cup, and commands me to eternal sleep.