There is a whole world inside my head filled with the brightest thinkers of a tiny but prolific race. They cheer for every input my senses receive and celebrate for every slice and byte they respond with. On their immensely efficient conveyor belts, each appears with an inertia of its own and arrives with an audible click. In a quiet place, I can hear the well oiled cogs of these assembly lines pumping out a million different ideas. I can hear the pitter-patter of a thousand tiny feet chasing after them, absolutely stark raving blind. There is no order to their industry. There is only the sound of unceasing, motivated activity despite an apparent chaos.
Just so you people know, it is not me that invents my little excerpts of cuckoo. It is these brilliant prophets, er, that are prophesying, er, maybe not prophesying, but ah yes, yes, rambling and ranting about the extremely subjective matter that comprises my fields of interest. They are the ones with the overactive imagination.
They call themselves as a whole and as a race, The Muse.
Individually, the little critters are mysterious and unfathomable, with personalities that are as different from each other as the birds and the bees. Put together, I now understand why I cannot understand myself.
They’re slightly crazy, but then I’m slightly crazy. You’d think so too, if disembodied voices deposited thoughts in your mind with a plop, like an ice cream machine at a fast food restaurant. As the irrational and the insane, they are what make me who I am. As the poly-dimensional and the colorful, they make damn sure that I’m not like you.
Welcome to the place where these, er, people, try to send tendrils of flesh and thought into the outside Universe – our world. They usually come out the other side well chewed and watery. They love to write about the impossible and how it is very often probable. Ranting about and insulting the already happening which usually varies from the improbable to the very possible, they are polemics who are cuttingly insightful and frighteningly self-aware.
When the world puts me in a crunch, the Muse realize that they are in danger. In the interest of self-preservation, they rally together and churn out a solution to save the day. We have learned to live together in harmony. The orchids on my creative tree, they need me to live and I need them to write. All this makes sense, because you cannot think laterally with only a single, tunnel-eyed perspective. A single viewpoint can only project itself in a linear fashion, in one direction. Many viewpoints propagate linear personalities in three dimensions.
There is only one problem. They reproduce like rabbits. The industrious hum of the Muse turned into white noise as I became older. It took a few years but they solved the problem. Mostly. These days, when I write, they send a representative of their race onto the page. My writing is alive with life because it is quite literally one of those tiny thinkers, with its personality and flaws included in the package. Think of it as intellectual emigration from the Brain to the paper. Sometimes, when you read the material they reside in, they immigrate into your brain. That’s only if they really like you, though. If not, they are a tad rude. I just wish more of them left my head because they are very often just as rude to me.
So, take care reading these snippets of toilet-top wisdom that are usually immature and sometimes far too pointless. They won’t bite, but I’ve put the analgesics in your desk drawer anyway. Make sure to drink plenty of water.