Hai cercato la traduzione di on my own version of adobong crab da Inglese a Tagalog

my own version
ang aking sariling bersyon

on my own
out dito sa aking sarili

on my own eyes
sa sarili kong pamamaraan

on my own accord
on my own accord

meke your own version of evolution of cellphone
meke your own version of evolution of cellphone

based on my own perspective
batay sa aking sariling pananaw

to lean not on my own understanding
upang sumandal hindi sa aking sarili

i tend to dislike working on my own
nahihirapan akong magparamdam sa mga tao

on my own way , i deed feel inferior to him
sa sarili kong paraan, ang pakiramdam ko ay mas mababa sa kanya

that i just said that because i'm not on my own
na sabi ko lang yun dahil wala ako sa sarili ko

hahah why would i tell you if i want to be on my own hahah
hahah why would i tell you if i want to be on my own hahahu

judge me all you want, i don't care as long as i'm alive on my own
judge me all you want, i don't care as long as i'm alive on my own

i want to be free like a bird kc i know i'm on my own i can also find lugarswhere no one is judgmental
gusto ko malaya katulad ng ibon kc alam ko sasarili ko makahanap din ako kugar kung saan walang taong mapanghusga

everybody has a story.when we don't take the time to know someones story or worse, create our own version of it,we lose the chance to understand what they need,which is the first step to empathy
ang bawat tao 'y may isang story.when hindi namin maglaan ng oras upang malaman someones kuwento o mas masahol pa, lumikha ng aming sariling bersyon ng mga ito, nawalan kami ng pagkakataon na maunawaan kung ano ang kailangan nila, na kung saan ay ang unang hakbang sa empatiya

and after all the succes on my journey i was able to build my own business and my own house and land and i also have a loving and caring husband with us and i can also help my family i can provide everything they need and so that i can recover from their sacrifices while i study...
at matapos ang lahat ng succes sa sa journey ko ay nakapag pundar nako ng sariling negosyo at sariling bahay at lupa at meron nadin akong asawang mapagmahal at maalahin samin ng mga anay nya at matutulongan ko na din pamilya ko maibibigay ko na lahat ng kailangan nila at para makabawi naman ako sa mga sakripisyo nila habang nag aaral palang ako...

a low art [excerpt from the penelopiad] by margaret atwood (canada) now that i’m dead i know everything. this is what i wished would happen, but like so many of my wishes it failed to come true. i know only a few factoids that i didn’t know before. death is much too high a price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say. since being dead — since achieving this state of bonelessness, liplessness, breastlessness —i’ve learned some things i would rather not know, as one does when listening at windows or opening ot her people’s letters. you think you’d like to read minds? think again. down here everyone arrives with a sack, like the sacks used to keep the winds in, but each of these sacks is full of words —words you’ve spoken, words you’ve heard, wo rds that have been said about you. some sacks are very small, others large; my own is of a reasonable size, though a lot of the words in it concern my eminent husband. what a fool he made of me, some say. it was a specialty of his: making fools. he got away with everything, which was another of his specialties: getting away. he was always so plausible. many people have believed that his version of events was the true one, give or take a few murders, a few beautiful seductresses, a few one-eyed monsters. even i believed him, from time to time. i knew he was tricky and a liar, i just didn’t think he would play his tricks and try out his lies on me. hadn’t i been faithful? hadn’t i waited, and waited, and waited, despite the temptation — almost the compulsion — to do otherwise? and what did i amount to, once the official version gained ground? an edifying legend. a stick used to beat other women with. why couldn’t they be as considerate, as trustworthy, as all-suffering as i had been? that was the line they took, the singers, the yarn- spinners. don’t follow my example, i want to scream in your ears — yes, yours! but when i try to scream, i sound like an owl. of course i had inklings, about his slipperiness, his wiliness, his foxiness, his — how can i put this? — his unscrupulousness, but i turned a blind eye. i kept my mouth shut; or if i opened it, i sang his praises. i didn’t contradict, i didn’t ask awkward questions, i didn’t dig deep. i wanted happy endings in those days, and happy endings are best achieved by keeping the right doors locked and going to sleep during the rampages. but after the main events were over and things had become less legendary, i realised how many people were laughing at me behind my back — how they were jeering, making jokes about me, jokes both clean and dirty; how they were turning me into a story, or into several stories, though not the kind of stories i’d prefer to hear about m yself. what can a woman do when scandalous gossip travels the world? if she defends herself she sounds guilty. so i waited some more. now that all the others have run out of air, it’s my t urn to do a little storymaking. i owe it to myself. i’ve had to work myself up to it: it’s a low art, tale-telling. old women go in for it, strolling beggars, blind singers, maidservants, children — folks with time on their hands. once, people would have laughed if i’d tried to play th e minstrel —there’s nothing more preposterous than an aristocrat fumbling around with the arts — but who cares about public opinion now? the opinion of the people down here: the opinions of shadows, of echoes. so i’ll spin a thread of my own.
isang mababang kwento ng sining sa tagalog