I often hear people speak of SHARED DREAMS.
It sounds beautiful. Hopeful. Noble.
But let me confess — I have never believed in them.
You see, I don’t dream for the world.
I dream for myself.
With closed eyes and a restless soul,
I long not for justice, but for comfort —
not for truth, but for control.
Yes, I want it all — for myself.
At any cost.
You heard me right.
At any cost.
The screams of the bombed,
the cries of bloodied children,
the ashes of shattered homes —
they never touch me.
They are too distant,
and my heart is too shielded by desire.
My trade is not peace — it’s weapons.
I profit from fear,
thrive on division,
and build empires on the backs of the broken.
I have no interest in compassion.
That is for poets and fools.
Give me power — raw, unyielding, absolute.
Power that makes the world kneel,
even if it means I must burn it first.
Ideals?
Ah, they make good speeches.
Great for awards.
Better for manipulating the masses.
Tell them of peace, unity, love —
while I feed their rage with religion,
race, nationalism, and pride.
Divide them. Make them fight.
Then sell them a flag to die under.
Unwanted wars?
They’re useful.
They justify my greed.
They hide the oil I steal, the land I occupy,
the wealth I extract from dying nations.
And when I die?
Another takes my place.
Another soul willing to pay the price for power —
even if it costs the world its humanity.
Because shared dreams?
They were never shared.
They were just my dreams —
dressed in the mask of hope,
sold to the blind,
and bought by the broken.
I called them “shared”
because that lie tasted sweeter
than the truth of my selfishness.