Cerebro Soul

And so it goes,

Dormant are the tales of wise old men whilst it breathes unencumbered by the truths of their spoken word. Bound to primordial waters, yet pearled only by essence, its fragrance'll reach the hearts of whoever it wishes. No one is deserving but wanting, for what is impressionism when poorly painted as an image of sorts?

And so it spoke

Out of the blue-void with but a paper in mind it voiced the sails of none but one. Cerebro Soul, its emanated name, with source unknown like a dog searching for its tail. No, not quite, for a dog can see its own tail. Perhaps like a child, yes like a child preying in awe on its elusive ears. So like a child externally locus'd through play it babbled vocabularianism and thus birthing word.

And so it monolingualized

Or monolingusted away from the norms of sure things for it was all so mono anyways. It was decided out there that eventuality simply must perpetuate all possibilities, therefore monologuing became its own witness as a congruent dyad.

And so they waltzed

With dialogue they swayed. Persuaded rough waters to change. Creating the life of waves. Evoking bright nights as day. And could you hear the music it played reverberating as backdrop to their Mona Lisa rave? Yes, dressed in a dialogue they swayed to:

Ta - ta - dum - ta - dum

Ta - ti-ti - ta - ta - dum

Ta - ta - dum - ta - dum

Ta - ti-ti - ta - ta - dum….

And so personified

By sound they became more than matter'd names, verbs, nouns … but rather routes for their mountains to mount the Mount of Rhymes, and then word salad. "Arugula premature inside blouse screen!" Alas, a tangent with no meaning to be held outside of its beholder. I would say the fall from grace was but a clever way to hue.

Hue:

verb

To bring forth colour through nuanced tones or pontification.

To hue the light of day.

Similar: self-actualization

And so they walked

As separate beings away from one another. The spectrum: a new insignia as one coined itself the cause of all. The other? Well, the effect that caused it all. The feud became unspoken refracted by their children through an array of thoughts ever-present, never-ending. Clowns caught in a circus'd house of mirrors (although they preferred the term human. The "e" properly silent, forgotten).

And so they rose

Above the sins of ones before, or so from their perspective. Diversity grew as wide as the rainbow'd spectacle stirred amongst themselves. In other words, if Camus was an absurdist then they were the reason behind it. "But how?" It often speculates.

And so it goes,

Dormant are the tales of wise old men whilst it breathes unencumbered by the truths of their spoken word. Bound to primordial waters, yet pearled only by essence, its fragrance'll reach the hearts of whoever it wishes. No one is deserving but wanting, for what is impressionism when poorly painted as an image of sorts….

Nathalie C.M. Sabbagh

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