Idle Talk


Some philosopher said that the end of life is when the world forgets about its existence.


If we are to believe her, she is still alive. Disappearing doesn't change anything.


The people who are stuck in her swamp are persistently alive. Staring at that child who remains in our memories, we scramble to overcome the wall in front of us.


Rumors that she might come back have been carried on the wind. It was only a rumor. I knew this in my head, but rumors are delicate things. Believing too much in a rumor can be harmful.


It's a well-known story in the industry that the allegations of infatuation are fake and that she is acting on her own. If you throw away the signboard of your office, you will not survive.


This is the Japanese entertainment industry.


Because of the excessive power of the offices, whether the talent is attractive or not is of secondary or tertiary importance. If the office wants to promote them, they can do so as much as they want.


This is also the reason why people are turning away from TV. They won't want to watch someone who isn't even interesting.


Somewhere in the back of my mind, I have high hopes for her. Just like those days of yore, when a single idol would send the nation into a frenzy.


The familiar smell of coffee. Dusty manuscript paper. Cheap paper cigarettes. All of them are the very parts of me that made the era.


Times change.


People seek change. It is the same in love and love. Whether it is in appearance or in the heart. The more we try to understand, the more depressing and annoying it is received.


Crammed words. A worldview that cannot be understood without explaining everything from one to a hundred. I am fed up with that. So here I am, with my dried-out gray hair still in place, irritated by a lighter that won't stick.


All that remains of the inkless fountain pen is its former glory. It's been a while since I could cling to it and no longer create anything new.


There is no such thing as emptiness. I have no interest in the music of recent years. I know that there is no place for an old man like me anymore.


People who lived in the same era as me say, "Those days were vibrant." But it's not the case, because that things are different now.


This modern age is just bustling and noisy.


The glittering neon streets. I saw so much brilliance that even the starlight blindfolded me. I really want to go back, but I know it is useless to say so.


It seems that this fountain pen is close to running out of ink. It has been a long time since I picked it up and wrote as I wished, but the nostalgic feeling is pleasant.


If I were to give this writing a name, what would it be?



------


Out of ink. The letters were cut off and the paper was crumpled up and thrown away. But a small amount of the man's thoughts remained in the space.


But it is not much of a thing. This is just the soliloquy of a lyricist.



PREV | NEXT