Translation
Fanfic: Naive Träumerei...
Chapter: Naive reverie ...
Foreword by the author:
How many words should you say about a drama? One or rather none? Can the value of a noun, verb, or adjective ever reflect what the invisible quill in the soul was holding on a crumbling sheet of paper. The answer to this is just as strange to me as the deliberations of my characters are often. It is possible that there are only authors who have the ability to control the words. I can't because they control me.
Good night to all of you who are reading this story.
> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <
Rumiko Takahashi owns all rights to the characters.
I do not accept any remuneration for this.
This story is dedicated to all those who share such thoughts and dreams.
> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> < > <> <> <> <> <> <
"Naive Dreaming", by Deepdream.
> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <
"Reality only tastes good after several glasses.And even then, dreams far exceed the sweetness of alcohol. "(One of many.)
> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <
At what temperature do tears freeze?
Do these transparent spheres even have this ability?
If not, what is stopping them from becoming clear pearls?
Your salinity or the body temperature of the person who loses it?
But why do we humans have to cry so often?
Why do the rims of the eyes often redden rather than the signs of bitterness subside?
Why are they paving my arduous path of anger and sadness?
Do they represent the bottom of my inner emptiness?
Or am I just too weak to fight them?
Can I even afford this mental fragility?
I hope so, but I'm not sure.
Just as little as it is really clear to me what the reason for my presence here is.
I have always stood for the epitome of an involuntary hermit.A loner.
A neglected person who nobody cares about and who just as few people know.
A sad fate? Not at all, at some point everything stands or falls under the overwhelming weight of habit.
That's sad, sad but true. As true as the salty tears are flowing down my cheeks right now and biting the inflamed skin.
What did I actually do to deserve so much suffering?
It borders on agony, doesn't it?
Or am I already neurotic and close to a nervous breakdown?
Maybe I'm just imagining my whole life so far.
It would be good, too good to be true.
Truth, a word interspersed with so many hidden meanings and lies.
Then why do we use it so often? Do not let go of this faded term, which contains such a huge amount of answers and yet misunderstood its only supposed meaning. But that is probably the destination, determination.
My steps are so full.Are thrown back from the painted concrete and natural stone walls.
Are reflected in the same way as sun rays from the surface of a pond.
Just as ignored as I am, a stranger in a stranger.
When I went to school many years ago, I remember as if it had only happened yesterday, our teacher had taken up the subject of lepers.
Usually he was a jolly middle-aged man with slightly graying temples and owl glasses, as we had amusedly called his optical aid at the time. In spite of his lack of sharpness and stubborn seriousness, he had radiated an aura of authority and confidence. If I remember correctly, he was the person who was most likely to have enjoyed my respect.
He had cracked none of his simple, yet humorous jokes on that sultry summer day in the semi-darkness with the blinds lowered and the joyful chirping of birds.You could tell that this topic symbolized something very personal for him. The reason for this is still not entirely clear to me, but in all honesty, I don't want to know either. He had started telling us about it in his calm, patient baritone. He spoke slowly and emphatically, we all paid him our full attention. Even my now long-time rival frowned with concentration. Unusual behavior for him, but a pleasant fact nonetheless.
Through the white reflections of the scant sunshine on the glasses, he had looked at us one after the other after he had finished his lecture. Each. And then he began to ask us what we mean by leper. Most of my classmates frowned and still did not get any satisfactory answer. I, on the other hand, looked back at what he had told us in his oral report.The mentions of the homeless, the sick, and the displaced. And the question he asked was about the one fate they all shared, despite their differences.
The moment I lifted my finger, I realized how much it was trembling. Why, I thought, looking at my vibrating index finger. Was I as excited as possible? Or was it just that vague intuition that assured you that your answer was definitely the right one? Before, I hadn't found an answer to it, today I leave this question alone, in the grave of my past.
The teacher had noticed me and looked at me for an unusually long time before calling me up. At that very moment, behind the open, but opaque windows, a bird intoned its verse of the symphony of the wind.
I let myself be carried away into a fantastic world of pure light. A paradise in which coercion had no right to exist and grief had no place.To an oasis shimmering like vermilion where the setting sun watched itself. A place where there was enough space for everyone, both for the acceptors and the outcasts. For this period of a few blink of an eye I had the unadulterated image of a sea-blue lagoon in which a frail grandma bathed as well as a little boy with only one arm, while a man without possessions caressed his wet hair lovingly. An elysium. A wonderful dream.
With a slight throat clearing, my teacher brought me back to the present, to the dirty reality. In spite of this, a lively smile spread over my otherwise so absent features and I spoke without any oppression that otherwise weighed on my heart. I only uttered one word of myself. For a second everything seemed to stop. The second hand of the red framed plastic clock, the excited attempts of my classmates to report and my teacher in his movements.For some it is just a collection of consonants and vowels. For many others, it hides the explanation for years of condemnation.
He used to nod slowly on this unnaturally warm day and, lost in thought, touched his shaved chin. Yes, he said thoughtfully, this is probably the best expression for all of their fate. Loneliness, he said, stretching the syllables for a long time, pray that you will never have to endure it.
And I have been praying fervently since that day. So I am aware that there is no Buddha, Jehovah or Zeus. At the bottom of our hearts we are all lonely and only one thing can save us from this karma. No superhuman being who cold-heartedly and regardless of our interests once threw us onto this planet. In a form as if he, she or it were merely sowing seeds in a plowed field in order to bring in the harvest sometime when the dawn comes.In many, many millions of years. There is only one de facto means that will lead us out of the crumbled prison of isolation and reveal to us what freedom actually means. We ourselves and the closeness to people who love us.
The famous metaphorical wings made of down and feather feathers, which poets and philosophers are only too happy to use in their works when these majestic wings existed than ever, no longer adorn our backs in the modern age. We ourselves broke away from them, not they broke away from us. We gave up life as angels in order to strive for happiness on earth. And we find it by discovering the secrets of our soul with another fallen angel. Thus, at the end of my deliberations, there is only one conclusion. Just one, no more and no less. We are not angels, but we are humans. Only with and through ourselves can we experience what it means to have once had wings. We share vibrations full of purity and sin with one another, we learn to open up our souls and the simple extract from it is called the key to the secret of our origins.Love. The conqueror of loneliness.
And with these considerations I am now on my way back. On to my love and my key. Get ready to give my heart to receive paradise in return. Whether my pleading remains unfulfilled in the end or whether it bears fruit is another thought. And as long as the warmth of hope remains in me and the shadow of truth stays away, I will still have a lot of time to look after and cherish it. To which it blooms and flourishes and gives me an answer to fate.
I am sure my teacher would have been proud of me. If he were still alive.
How many words should you say about a drama? One or rather none? Can the value of a noun, verb, or adjective ever reflect what the invisible quill in the soul was holding on a crumbling sheet of paper. The answer to this is just as strange to me as the deliberations of my characters are often. It is possible that there are only authors who have the ability to control the words. I can't because they control me.
Good night to all of you who are reading this story.
> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <
Rumiko Takahashi owns all rights to the characters.
I do not accept any remuneration for this.
This story is dedicated to all those who share such thoughts and dreams.
> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> < > <> <> <> <> <> <
"Naive Dreaming", by Deepdream.
> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <
"Reality only tastes good after several glasses.And even then, dreams far exceed the sweetness of alcohol. "(One of many.)
> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <
At what temperature do tears freeze?
Do these transparent spheres even have this ability?
If not, what is stopping them from becoming clear pearls?
Your salinity or the body temperature of the person who loses it?
But why do we humans have to cry so often?
Why do the rims of the eyes often redden rather than the signs of bitterness subside?
Why are they paving my arduous path of anger and sadness?
Do they represent the bottom of my inner emptiness?
Or am I just too weak to fight them?
Can I even afford this mental fragility?
I hope so, but I'm not sure.
Just as little as it is really clear to me what the reason for my presence here is.
I have always stood for the epitome of an involuntary hermit.A loner.
A neglected person who nobody cares about and who just as few people know.
A sad fate? Not at all, at some point everything stands or falls under the overwhelming weight of habit.
That's sad, sad but true. As true as the salty tears are flowing down my cheeks right now and biting the inflamed skin.
What did I actually do to deserve so much suffering?
It borders on agony, doesn't it?
Or am I already neurotic and close to a nervous breakdown?
Maybe I'm just imagining my whole life so far.
It would be good, too good to be true.
Truth, a word interspersed with so many hidden meanings and lies.
Then why do we use it so often? Do not let go of this faded term, which contains such a huge amount of answers and yet misunderstood its only supposed meaning. But that is probably the destination, determination.
My steps are so full.Are thrown back from the painted concrete and natural stone walls.
Are reflected in the same way as sun rays from the surface of a pond.
Just as ignored as I am, a stranger in a stranger.
When I went to school many years ago, I remember as if it had only happened yesterday, our teacher had taken up the subject of lepers.
Usually he was a jolly middle-aged man with slightly graying temples and owl glasses, as we had amusedly called his optical aid at the time. In spite of his lack of sharpness and stubborn seriousness, he had radiated an aura of authority and confidence. If I remember correctly, he was the person who was most likely to have enjoyed my respect.
He had cracked none of his simple, yet humorous jokes on that sultry summer day in the semi-darkness with the blinds lowered and the joyful chirping of birds.You could tell that this topic symbolized something very personal for him. The reason for this is still not entirely clear to me, but in all honesty, I don't want to know either. He had started telling us about it in his calm, patient baritone. He spoke slowly and emphatically, we all paid him our full attention. Even my now long-time rival frowned with concentration. Unusual behavior for him, but a pleasant fact nonetheless.
Through the white reflections of the scant sunshine on the glasses, he had looked at us one after the other after he had finished his lecture. Each. And then he began to ask us what we mean by leper. Most of my classmates frowned and still did not get any satisfactory answer. I, on the other hand, looked back at what he had told us in his oral report.The mentions of the homeless, the sick, and the displaced. And the question he asked was about the one fate they all shared, despite their differences.
The moment I lifted my finger, I realized how much it was trembling. Why, I thought, looking at my vibrating index finger. Was I as excited as possible? Or was it just that vague intuition that assured you that your answer was definitely the right one? Before, I hadn't found an answer to it, today I leave this question alone, in the grave of my past.
The teacher had noticed me and looked at me for an unusually long time before calling me up. At that very moment, behind the open, but opaque windows, a bird intoned its verse of the symphony of the wind.
I let myself be carried away into a fantastic world of pure light. A paradise in which coercion had no right to exist and grief had no place.To an oasis shimmering like vermilion where the setting sun watched itself. A place where there was enough space for everyone, both for the acceptors and the outcasts. For this period of a few blink of an eye I had the unadulterated image of a sea-blue lagoon in which a frail grandma bathed as well as a little boy with only one arm, while a man without possessions caressed his wet hair lovingly. An elysium. A wonderful dream.
With a slight throat clearing, my teacher brought me back to the present, to the dirty reality. In spite of this, a lively smile spread over my otherwise so absent features and I spoke without any oppression that otherwise weighed on my heart. I only uttered one word of myself. For a second everything seemed to stop. The second hand of the red framed plastic clock, the excited attempts of my classmates to report and my teacher in his movements.For some it is just a collection of consonants and vowels. For many others, it hides the explanation for years of condemnation.
He used to nod slowly on this unnaturally warm day and, lost in thought, touched his shaved chin. Yes, he said thoughtfully, this is probably the best expression for all of their fate. Loneliness, he said, stretching the syllables for a long time, pray that you will never have to endure it.
And I have been praying fervently since that day. So I am aware that there is no Buddha, Jehovah or Zeus. At the bottom of our hearts we are all lonely and only one thing can save us from this karma. No superhuman being who cold-heartedly and regardless of our interests once threw us onto this planet. In a form as if he, she or it were merely sowing seeds in a plowed field in order to bring in the harvest sometime when the dawn comes.In many, many millions of years. There is only one de facto means that will lead us out of the crumbled prison of isolation and reveal to us what freedom actually means. We ourselves and the closeness to people who love us.
The famous metaphorical wings made of down and feather feathers, which poets and philosophers are only too happy to use in their works when these majestic wings existed than ever, no longer adorn our backs in the modern age. We ourselves broke away from them, not they broke away from us. We gave up life as angels in order to strive for happiness on earth. And we find it by discovering the secrets of our soul with another fallen angel. Thus, at the end of my deliberations, there is only one conclusion. Just one, no more and no less. We are not angels, but we are humans. Only with and through ourselves can we experience what it means to have once had wings. We share vibrations full of purity and sin with one another, we learn to open up our souls and the simple extract from it is called the key to the secret of our origins.Love. The conqueror of loneliness.
And with these considerations I am now on my way back. On to my love and my key. Get ready to give my heart to receive paradise in return. Whether my pleading remains unfulfilled in the end or whether it bears fruit is another thought. And as long as the warmth of hope remains in me and the shadow of truth stays away, I will still have a lot of time to look after and cherish it. To which it blooms and flourishes and gives me an answer to fate.
I am sure my teacher would have been proud of me. If he were still alive.