物語の主人公になりたくて、 ノートに書きかけの自分を並べてみても、 現実はいつもページの外側で揺れていた。 比喩で飾った言葉はすぐ滲んで、 青写真は雨に溶け、 脚本はいつまでも“未遂”のまま。 誰かの伏線を追いかけてばかりで 自分の主語が消えていくような日々の中で、 「物語になれない僕」を赦すために もう一度ペンを取る。 藍御納戸の夜を越えて、 未遂のページを抱えたまま、 それでも前へ進もうとする 一人の若者の“文学的青春譚”。 [Lyrics] 書きかけの僕らは 今日もインクの海で “主人公未遂”のまま ページをめくる 物語みたいに生きたくて 余白だらけのノートに逃げ込んだ 比喩ばかりで飾った言葉 本音だけがいつも裏に滲んだ 選んだはずの青写真が 雨で溶けて読み取れないまま 脚本未遂のシーンばかり 心の底に積み上がっていく ねぇ、こんな人生のプロットで ほんとに大団円へ向かえるの？ 誰かの伏線ばっか追いかけて 僕の主語が消えそうだ 青春文学未遂さ ページを破っても 真実は残るのに 行間に散らばった夢が 不可逆の今日（いま）をそっと照らしてる それでもペンを握るよ 藍御納戸（あいおなんど）の夜を越えながら 物語（ストーリー）にしなくていい この呼吸だけが 本物だから 体言止めで終わる恋 倒置法でごまかした“弱さ” 誤字だらけの昨日にさえ 意味をつけたくて線を引いた 感情の辞典 引き裂いて 「涙」の項目に追記してる 言語未遂の叫び声が 胸の中でまだ反響してる ねぇ、誰も読み返さないなら この章の価値ってどこにある？ 未熟な文法で綴った僕を 誰より僕が嫌っていた 青春文学未遂さ 傷つくたびに 文字の端がめくれて 守りたかった台詞ほど インクの下で泣きそうになる それでもペンを握るよ 未完成の僕が 息をしているから 物語（ストーリー）にしなくていい この不完全さが 本物だから 青春SNSの渦に 書き捨てた本音が溺れた日 未来形に書き直したのは “今の僕”を赦すため 青春文学未遂でいい 上手く書けない僕のページにも 読み返せば ちゃんと痛みは 真実として刻まれるから 破り捨てた夢の断片 全部つなげたら 僕になる気がした 不可逆でもかまわない 戻れない今日（いま）を 抱きしめたくて 藍御納戸の夜を越え 未遂の僕を やっと愛せそうだ 物語じゃなくてもいい 息をしてるだけで 続編になるから ＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝ Title: Unfinished Youth Hoping to become the protagonist of a story, I lined up the unfinished pages of my notebook, but reality was always fluctuating just outside the pages. Words decorated with metaphors quickly blur, the blueprint dissolves in the rain, and the script forever remains "unfinished." In the midst of days spent chasing someone else's hints, and feeling like my own subject is disappearing, I pick up my pen once more to forgive "the me who can't become a story." This is a "literary coming-of-age tale" of one young man who, beyond the night in the indigo storeroom, carries an unfinished page, but still tries to move forward. [Lyrics] We're still writing in a sea of ink today. As "unfinished protagonists," I turn the pages. Wanting to live like a story, I took refuge in a notebook full of blank spaces. Words embellished with metaphors. My true feelings always bleed through. The blueprint I thought I'd chosen Melts in the rain, making it unreadable. Scenes of unfinished scripts Pile up in the depths of my heart. Hey, with a life plot like this, Can I really reach a happy ending? Chasing someone else's hints, My subject is about to disappear. An unfinished work of youth literature. Even if I tear the pages, the truth remains. The right lines, the beautiful metaphors. I can't become the protagonist. But still, I pick up my pen. I feel like it's okay to write about my unfinished self. There's no need to turn it into a story. Because only my breathing is real. An unfinished work of youth literature. Clumsy dreams are scattered between the lines. Like an irreversible reaction, Today I can't go back. I'm still afraid But I'll keep writing the pages Untainted by anyone else's color In the depths of the night in the indigo storeroom I was searching for only a faint light A love that ends with a noun-ending sentence I used inversion to hide my "weakness" Even yesterday, full of typos, I drew lines through, wanting to give it meaning I'm tearing apart my dictionary of emotions I'm adding notes to the "tears" entry The scream of my failed attempts at language still reverberates in my heart Hey, if no one rereads it, what's the value of this chapter? I hated myself more than anyone, writing with immature grammar. This is an attempted work of youth literature. Every time I'm hurt, the edges of the letters peel back. The more I want to protect these lines, I feel like crying beneath the ink. But still, I'll hold the pen. Because the incomplete me is breathing. There's no need to make it into a story. This imperfection is real. The day I drowned in the whirlpool of youthful social media, I rewrote my true feelings in the future tense. To forgive the "me of today." It's okay to be an attempted work of youth literature. Even on the pages of my life that I can't write well, If I reread them, the pain will be engraved as truth. The fragments of my torn-away dreams. If I put them all back together, I felt like I would become myself. I don't care if it's irreversible. I want to embrace this present day that I can't go back to. Through the night in the indigo storeroom, I think I can finally love this attempted me. It doesn't have to be a story. Just breathing will lead to a sequel.
