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Rated: E · Fiction · Contest Entry · #1608706
"An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself"

Just beneath the rippled surface of the mind there are sounds like no other. Appearing, disappearing, crossed and recrossing, blending, then defining, colors galore and no color at all, shapes shaping, everchanging. Who knew that a sound could have color, depth, breadth, height, shape or whatever level of dimensional illusion?

While we would like to think we know how to think, do we truly? And what about an original, purely your own, thought? How do we discern what is meaningful and what to disregard within our own little piece of the multi-verse we call our 'self', when do we know?

Out of sync, out of context, out of space and out of our minds spring forth unbidden; myriad answers to questions we did not even know that we had. What is up with that? Or down, for that matter.

When we speak to 'self' within our mind, who are we hearing? Amid the noisesome innards, the quiet spaces, where is the rhythm? If 'dancing to one's own beat' is the norm, then who or what lays out the 'rule of mean' and why should we care if all we hear is whispers?

Do we acknowledge that whispers are the ghosts of thoughts already shared? Or, out of fear, delight or something indescribable do we declare that they are but effervescent shades of ideas to come, from within or without, somewhere in-between, our inner-truth encompassed?

What was that enlightened note..so quietly felt..so gently hued..?
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