Gibberishy

Thinking is not writing, and babbling is not writing, but rambling is writing, and I am a rambling man, in a manner of speaking, and my mind imitates the blank stare of a bird with all the fleetingness thereof, over and under and around but never on target and always of no use, no cause or consequence, spinning my mind into a cobweb of unused space, with all the seeming of a bum sitting in a heap of trash. Work, mind, work! Lazy eye, lazy brain. Sluggish. Is ish how they made adjectives before y? Sluggy, they’d say it today. Chocolatey, chocolatish. Either way I can’t eat it. At least when my mind unloads itself it entertains itself. I think I’ve been holding my brain in a funny position and now I have lost feeling in it. Perhaps I should shake it about a bit, get some circulation going again. C’mon, pins and needles! Here’s a story of a girl who couldn’t keep a thought in her head but sat all day on a bench in a park watching the world parade by. Sometimes she’d wave. Then one day her butt fell asleep and she determined to get up and do something. But she promptly forgot. And so she sits and stands and sits and stands and sometimes the parade waves back.