I'm stalling,
Standing in lines to buy time,
Using ryhmes to explain emotions that are hardly mine,
I'm running around from running out of solid grounds,
They say faith is mandatory but what do I do when it's nowhere to be found?
I search for little things in late night prayers that I could believe in,
reachin' for the stars just to distract myself from the fact that the basis I stand on isn't as solid as i was told from the start,
And until the truth unfolds and reality falls apart,
I'm stalling,
We,
We're fallin in love and then immediately out of it,
We call ourselves misfits just because we like the sound of it,
And we indulge in playground roles that we find it hard to snap out of it,
And so we grab our wooden swords and we wrap capes of paper around our throats and line up words pretending they're bound to save the world.
You see we're playing make belief in a society where everyone fake believes,
carrying the badges of a prophet,
And we know there's no gained profit,
Only more lies to kill the time we buy,
And it's never enough,
All of this nonsense we mumble and absolute bluff,
Is lies,
Denying the fact that we actually deny everything within the sight of our eyes,
Each one of us forgot that they're acting and dived too deep in their role of this theatrical play, and that's kinda nice,
But like... everybody is programmed for a certain set of lines that they got memorized,
And would never let go, like how you go:
-كيف، تمام؟
-FUCK NO, I'm tired of the pretense and I'm sick, and I'm drained, and I'm starting to worry that I'm falling apart and that I'm going insane.
I'm afraid there's too much I percieve and it's terrifying, these mounts of struggle and grief that we smuggle in her eyes, and his face, and your words,
انت كيف؟
Huh,
it all shows in those exceptionally well written roles that are full of contradictions and broken metaphors and linguistic flaws.
And it makes me wonder...
Should we really believe that this love poet's heart is captured and punctured and that his knees really did fall apart, and his soul rained and he was struck with thunder when his and his lover's eyes met?
Are there really dusted demons stashed in some corner beneath my bed and that I can say are the ones to blame?
And are the remaining bones of skeletons hidden in the pockets of the clothes lined up in my closet are the source of this hesitating voice that whispers my name,
What a shame,
What a shame,
I could be the thoughtful child that maybe sees things through his glass eyes that do matter and exist,
But instead my brain will insist with the constant thought that all the things we think makes us nothing but frauds,
That our emotions are delusions,
And our map for the route is a mis-decyphered code...
Oh well,
Oh well,
Hold that thought.
You could sell it for a penny now, or for a dollar when I'm dead, but they say money weighs to naught,
So why not get rid of it instead?
I think we're adernaline junkies dipped in a bit too much curiousity
Taking leaps of lack of faith disregarding the physical laws of freefalls and velocity,
Chasing down our dreams but being held back with anxiety,
We just hope that somewhere during the fall we'll be able to percieve things from a different point of perception,
But... there's none,
I think we've wasted all of our possibilties all while we're too young, and too wrong, and too lost in the decieving thought that we're a little too strong.
So it's all gone and whatever is left wouldn't be there,
soon,
The moon will crash into earth and the sun would burn away before we reach the grounds and put an end to this falling,
But until then,
We're stalling.
Standing in lines to buy time,
Using ryhmes to explain emotions that are hardly mine,
I'm running around from running out of solid grounds,
They say faith is mandatory but what do I do when it's nowhere to be found?
I search for little things in late night prayers that I could believe in,
reachin' for the stars just to distract myself from the fact that the basis I stand on isn't as solid as i was told from the start,
And until the truth unfolds and reality falls apart,
I'm stalling,
We,
We're fallin in love and then immediately out of it,
We call ourselves misfits just because we like the sound of it,
And we indulge in playground roles that we find it hard to snap out of it,
And so we grab our wooden swords and we wrap capes of paper around our throats and line up words pretending they're bound to save the world.
You see we're playing make belief in a society where everyone fake believes,
carrying the badges of a prophet,
And we know there's no gained profit,
Only more lies to kill the time we buy,
And it's never enough,
All of this nonsense we mumble and absolute bluff,
Is lies,
Denying the fact that we actually deny everything within the sight of our eyes,
Each one of us forgot that they're acting and dived too deep in their role of this theatrical play, and that's kinda nice,
But like... everybody is programmed for a certain set of lines that they got memorized,
And would never let go, like how you go:
-كيف، تمام؟
-FUCK NO, I'm tired of the pretense and I'm sick, and I'm drained, and I'm starting to worry that I'm falling apart and that I'm going insane.
I'm afraid there's too much I percieve and it's terrifying, these mounts of struggle and grief that we smuggle in her eyes, and his face, and your words,
انت كيف؟
Huh,
it all shows in those exceptionally well written roles that are full of contradictions and broken metaphors and linguistic flaws.
And it makes me wonder...
Should we really believe that this love poet's heart is captured and punctured and that his knees really did fall apart, and his soul rained and he was struck with thunder when his and his lover's eyes met?
Are there really dusted demons stashed in some corner beneath my bed and that I can say are the ones to blame?
And are the remaining bones of skeletons hidden in the pockets of the clothes lined up in my closet are the source of this hesitating voice that whispers my name,
What a shame,
What a shame,
I could be the thoughtful child that maybe sees things through his glass eyes that do matter and exist,
But instead my brain will insist with the constant thought that all the things we think makes us nothing but frauds,
That our emotions are delusions,
And our map for the route is a mis-decyphered code...
Oh well,
Oh well,
Hold that thought.
You could sell it for a penny now, or for a dollar when I'm dead, but they say money weighs to naught,
So why not get rid of it instead?
I think we're adernaline junkies dipped in a bit too much curiousity
Taking leaps of lack of faith disregarding the physical laws of freefalls and velocity,
Chasing down our dreams but being held back with anxiety,
We just hope that somewhere during the fall we'll be able to percieve things from a different point of perception,
But... there's none,
I think we've wasted all of our possibilties all while we're too young, and too wrong, and too lost in the decieving thought that we're a little too strong.
So it's all gone and whatever is left wouldn't be there,
soon,
The moon will crash into earth and the sun would burn away before we reach the grounds and put an end to this falling,
But until then,
We're stalling.
