Hello. My name is ramble. I come around uninvited and stay past my welcome. Ive discovered how to crawl into a mind and scream, without saying a word. My voice carries, echoes, like some infintly ricocheting bullet. I have no point at all. Just a repititous murmer. The loose headed babbles of a dumpster diver, that squash and cover all other useable thought. This is my playtime with your brainstrings, with no sign of musical talent. When i am about, no thought left unturned. A simultanous birage of incoherency, unlabeled. While my host tries to holster and arrange, i change the subject and comence to screaming. Mr. Ramble must be a ball, for it is without point. Physics do not effect the babble, as its matter is created and destroyed with each thoughtless whim. Superceding the previously patient thoughts, that were kind enough to let the host sleep. I play trumpets in the early morn, and trim the hedges inside your head. It is quite amusing to annoy the stagnent mind. Spin and mix the pool of thoughts into a convulsive waves that crash around, splashing. I am the oposite of order. I am chaos. I am invincible. Slowly the logic and responsability wake. To the mess splattered, mucking about. Immediatly begin to organize, with fevered pitch. Unable to concentrate with Ramble hard at work. So the louder he screams, the quiter they are. The faster he moves, the slower they stall. With his random, they reply order. Slowly, the madness transcends into a soup of possibility. As the oil and water mix, physics return, along with maths and sciences. The flora come from their hiding spots, nd the sun begins its rise. The beast within has been subdued, domesticated, put to work as a trained monkey. Set to madness with remedial tasks, to the steady beat of the metranome. For that magic hour, communication is possible. Lost items found, hanging pictures returned to their symetric placement. And all is good. Logic however knows the dangers of its caged beast Ramble. So hurridly through the motions it races, aware of the coming night. Preperations for the morn, a record for the morning youth, to help along the way. As the day drudges on, all inside become weak and tired. The ropes loosen, uncaging the exhausted players, allowing for space to breath back amonst the stars. Whoever remains standing takes point, as the heavyweights spent from mortal combat drift apart. Many more subservent charachters linger about, Love, and Misery. Joy, and his sister Sorrow. Taking the reigns, driving the unchained steed headstrong into the night. Until finally the tank runs dry. All goes queit as the vessel putters to a hault, exhausted from battles raged, hidden wars. The curtain drops, nobody is fooled. The audience knows, just another intermission. No time for autographs, the cast drunk from perfomance, in thier seperate rooms slumber. Until the trumpets.....
Posted on: Thu, 26 Jun 2014 08:44:02 +0000
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