There is no noise.
There is no silence.
Let us tell us.
Let us expect, gone, emaciated.

The motives... they exceed.
They lack reasons, the motives.
Impulses, they are the proper culprits.
Inexhaustible fuel flowing, to streams.

We detain to think.
And nevertheless, we do not think.
We look at us... and out of the corner of the eye we look at us...
But the truth is that we do not observe us either.

We search, we always search.
We are thinking about finding the meaning of the things.
... Vain and ephemeral illusions of our thought.
...Since we are, being and without being, but we are.

Present and real, but at the time, diffuse and evanescent.
As also the worlds, inhabitants of our being.
Worlds shared and avoided from the indiscreet looks.
We shelter in the hot and cold encounters with the rest.

But it is not enough, we are insatiable.
We offer smiles and receive gestures.
We swing in the commonness, indifferent to the world.
Really indifferent to the world, so strange as to ourselves.

We can see and listen, pretend and obviate.
But it turns out impossible to ignore...
And when the world is opened beneath our feet, it frightens us to advance.

We set free questions without response.
We poke, feel, recognise our soft heart.
And we make it cry, we fill it without thinking.
Filling it with melodies, days, joys and miseries, anxieties and fantasies.

Then, we perceive the minimal details. Negligible shades highlighted by their peculiarity.
Their facility to break our soul in two.
Their nonchalance before our fragile minds.

And the doubts are constant, without response.
Eternal battles between mind and heart.
Unequivocal samples of emotional imbalance.
In the end, tracks of humanity.