Looking over, specifically at that exact location,
Trying to catch a glimpse of her,
Only to pretend to look elsewhere when she notices,
I think I've started to feel some sort of attraction.

There's really no good reason behind it all,
Only that when I see her, all senses of reason ceases to exist.
I knowingly fall into this well I've vowed to avoid,
Into a mess I used to blindly enjoy.
Logic and reasoning are mere spectators in this show,
Watching a clumsy protagonist tossing and tumbling,
Finding humor in the protagonist's funny antics,
To win over the heart of one-too-many cinderellas.
This stage play has repeated itself so many times,
Starting out so faithful, ending in so much grief.
When will the audience get bored with the same old plot?
Yet they say we learn from our mistakes.
Raindrops pour beyond the window, a sense of melancholy.
How do I confess my affection for a girl again?
I can't understand why one would put so much though in such nonsense.
To be honest, then ambivalent, or the other way around?
Actually, none of that matters in the end.
The resolution to this nonsensical drama has already been decided.
The human mind seeks patterns it obviously cannot control,
And mere attraction feeds only to the simplest of desires.
A racing heart, exhausted, seeks for a rest.
Seeking any resemblance of resolute to this trancing modulation.
We all sure can wish for things that never materialize.
The cloud has left no room for the blue skies,
The wind rips up a thunderstorm like adding salt to a gaping wound.
Would it be a brash decision to act in the heat of the moment?
Do not wish for rainbows in the midst of the scent of rain.

How is it that emptiness is able to fill my chest?
I feel hollow, I feel full.
A bunch of thoughts, contradictions fill the air.
The cloud rips apart in the horizon city.

There was no message to be sent since the beginning.
It serves only to please the hearts of the gullible.
After all, the things we don't know about grabs our attention the most.
But, without trying, how are we supposed to know?
We were born with them only to grow up and suppress them.
This purely emotional concept we call "love",
The literary nonsense I write, impossible to capture it in its entirety.
Perhaps the scriptwriter had a motive to his works.
But without disclosing, we are all left to our own hypotheses,
The audience, in a similar state of confusion,
As to what is the final conclusion to "love" itself.

Tonight, we have a sellout opera.
"An aria that simply cannot be sung."
Seeing her figure slowly vanishing beyond the streetlights,
This play will go on, another night.