“We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.” 

William Shakespeare  


Walking dreams.  

Every morning, step by step, we walk towards our useless existences. I see people walking to their offices. I see people going back home. I see people wandering down the street: sometimes in the dark side; sometimes in the bright side. 

Where am I? I am there, for everybody to disappear. Walking down the street of my nonsense while singing, in my mind, always the same songs.  


Walking dreams. 

Every day I wonder if people know who they are. I mean, if they really know who they are. Most of them will say “Yes.” I admire them. I admire them because they claim to know something that in my mind does not even exist. They walk, with no fear, proud of what they do. And they walk exactly to their point. Every day, mechanically. 

Who am I? I am nobody. I am the shadow of my ghost. Still uncovered, still secretly embarrassed to claim my vain attempts in defining the meaning of life. 


Walking dreams. 

Do they read poetry? Do they know that poetry is nothing less than a very successful attempt of demonstrating that nothing exists? 

All these painful odes. All these sad rhymes. All the love written and hidden black on white. An orgasm of commas, syntax, and enjambments. All this disgust for life which does not exist, which does not change us, which we cannot stop. 

The rhythm is important. The rhythm counts because it gives the idea that words become metaphor of life. But there is nothing better than silence that can describe life as such. A dream which does not exist.  


Walking dreams. 

Wake up, stranger. Wake up! Walk and drive. Sing and cry. Shut up and scream! You don’t exist. Only what you see keeps you alive. Only what you do keeps you awake. You are nothing else than a bunch of emotions living in a shell that keeps you walking, your body. 

One day you will wake up. The morning will be dark. The night will be dark. The sun will be dark. You, a ghost with no shadow. The world, a shell with no contents. You will remember things that don’t exist anymore. And there, while standing at your new spot, you will finally recognize that nothing ever made sense. 


Walking dreams.

Spread the Chaos