L’Enfer, c’est les Autres

Ask me, my dear, where does this nausea originate from.

Ask me, my dear, what existence is worth in this menial world.

You have got yourself a bunch of idiotes calling the shots.

You have got yourself a few poor diables that know nothing or aspire to know nothing. Le monde est une putaine de fable.

I wanted to tell you everything.

I wanted to have the strength to forgive it all, even when the bad comes mostly from myself.

Mais je ne suis qu’une masse de chair et d’os.

I feel like the world has chewed me up and spat my pieces all over this damned Earth. Can I gather them all in this lifetime?

Mon amour, je t’aime mais je suis faible.

I keep missing a reality that no longer acknowledges me.

And I keep allowing this outside toxicity to corrupt me.

I want to blow it all up.

The anger and the frustration grows like a cancer. Can we kill this maladie?

Or is it that this illness is the norm, these days? Are we all doomed to succumb to this new plague?

I feel nauseated. All I am is nausea.

How can I be expected to exist as a full human being?

Puis-je traiter cette nausée? Exister d’une manière saine?