意識放流

Illustration ： COLN Translation：Unk Original Article： 致那些被捏造的我們，其二 Pure joy is jubilant, yet sad backstory will make its own color murky. However, there will be something fresh if we focus on the "JOY" itself, devoting our emotions digging into it berserk. We remind us subjectively that things always exist before receiving any attention; as the member of the cosmos, you need to comprehend the smallness of yourself. Nevertheless, we're human beings, observing this whole cosmos with life and perspective of humanity. This is the fun only belongs to us, no matter how speechless the cosmos is. Not long ago I played the game "Journey" by accident, which profoundly helps me to recognize something unsure. This game makes me feel that life is a trip, and homecoming is the final rest. In recent I ultimately realize that, in the short period of time I've experienced, the ones I hardly forget is every kind of leaving. With the fading of something fami...

Illustration：COLN 中文原文： 致那些被捏造的我們，其一 譯：Unk I never try to complicate any stories intentionally. However, some things are not meant to be written but to be experienced by myself.   Everybody liked to fantasize in childhood, before reaching and comprehending “the reality” in the process of growth. This reality is too neutral to be shaken, no matter how sentimental we are. Knowing the fact that this reality is always changing with something else makes this cosmos much harder to be imagined than we expect. Therefore, via “To Us Who Are Made Up,” I attempt to acquire wilder scope to observe myself and things around me, like the film I admire so much, Interstella, which reminds us that we may not mature yet in the game of cosmos, where we are thoroughly tiny but striving. Nobody can escape from the cosmos and history. People may go further by learning to see the whole cosmos as a family, at every passed moment. I recall one hypothesis in an aged sci-fi manga, ...

中文原文： 「致那些被捏造的我們」 譯：Unk Speechless always is cosmos. In every present firm or loose At countless intersections between dreams and reality Within the aggregation of consciousness, sweet, bitter, then rotten People cultivate boisterously Their words are fewer gradually In learning docility They leave when the joy begins Simultaneously we talk, with voice Twisting our bodies and showing off our tongues “Let’s record,” said we Every moment is history, infinitely Record until annihilation Which is, I understand, burning And the burnt. That kind of Truth Describing while described Front and rear painted with colours One flock impacts on the same flock Before the one and only speechless Mother We’re on the same team Cosmos is on the same team After comprehending the impossibility of leaving I’ve written some letters To us who are made up We may burn or preserve them after read Or authenticate, or refurbish, or hide An accom...