A miniature thing of sorts is seen to be bouncing, maybe even frolicking (possibly skipping), through a windy, dull, monochromatic tunnel. As this elusive thing makes its way along it bumps into the sides of the tunnel, for it is to hyper for such a small path. As the thing knocks the side walls a shower of color appears. The color looks much like sparks, but as they fall on the thing they become part of him, much like the dye that one might see in a ‘color run’ except more brilliant. This brilliant little thing continues to gambol along, seemingly unaware of the ruckus it is causing in this monotonous environment. The gray matter around this brightly colored thing appears unflappable to the prancing thing running through it, but the thing continues, cavorting without a care.
Meanwhile, in a land far far away, a human sits alone in a room, staring off into a distance that is not truly as distant as the eyes appear to be making it. This human might be thought to be ‘day dreaming’ or ‘lost in thought,’ whatever the term one might use the fact of the matter is that this person is hanging about in there own head.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the thing has left the grey tunnel and entered a larger grey cavern of sorts. As this thing rounded the corner from its tunnel another thing entered from a another tunnel. The thing, unable to slow its speed in such a short space, romps right into this new thing causing a flurry of sparks and bright color. A whirlwind of sparks and dye. Like a storm or a twister these colors dominate and cause a ruckus larger than the single thing could ever achieve. The unfalteringly monochrome world is now being changed at a feverish rate. The color attaches itself to the cavern and then spreads like a fire. It lights up the tunnels and changes the grey matter into colors that matter. The firing of synapses is a thing of intense beauty, not easily stopped once started.
Back in the land of the living the human comes alive and starts writing so frenzied that one might wonder how the human is still attached to its fingers, or maybe the human is typing. In fact, the human maybe painting or drawing. They could be drafting or chopping. Carving, sculpting, or fixing fiber. Whatever it is that human is doing it is clear that they have been struck by inspiration, and those mysterious things called thoughts, have been struck by eachother, allowing the enormous pallet of inspiration to become available to this human.
I am not sure if that is really how these things works, inspiration and all, but sometimes when I sit alone with myself and there seems nothing left to think about I toss this thought around. It always seems very profound at the time, but really it is just a bunch of thoughts. Probably uninspired thoughts at that. Ah well, uninspired thoughts are okay with me as long as they’re colorful.
Typing away in Portland. Doop doop doop.