The sound of mumbling came from under the bed. The little boy was quaking with fear, uncertain of which direction he should run. The monster under his bed was angry, and he was hungry.
“–mumbling, underthings tumbling–”
in the background. It was a room full of Niel Patrick Harris fans, but no one was paying attention because we were all peeking out the window to figure out the source of the sounds coming from the neighbor’s house. We were starting to think the real party was at their place.
mumbling is like bumbling and reminds me of the word rumbling like a distant thunderstorm approaching from far away- like over the ocean and it is 2 in the morning and your dad has woken you and your brother up to see the storm slowly rolling in over the ocean in Montauk
“I need help,” he mumbled.
“What?” she asked. “I can’t hear you, hon, you’re mumbling.”
“I need help,” he repeated, a little bit louder.
Again, “What?” she cried. “I can’t hear you!”
“I said, I need help.”
“Huh? You really should speak up. I can’t hear a word you just said.”
“Just forget it.” The boy threw his pencil down and stood up. He then walked away, out of the school, out of the town, out of the world, never to be seen again.
Mrs. Zelvig looked cross. “Don’t lie to me, Gabrielle. What were you mumbling?”
“Nothing. Really, nothing.”
“Nothing at all, or nothing you consider important?”
Gabrielle whipped her head up from her resting spot on her desk. “Whatever, Mrs. Zelvig! Christ! Would it kill you not to pick on me for at least one day right in front of the class?”
It’s what I do under my breath when something is too brilliant or devious to be said out loud. My mumblings are more my true self than any well thought out utterance could be.
Mumbling reveals something about each and every one of us. There are mumbles of the mind, which tell us our deepest wants and wishes. There are mumbles out loud, which tell us what we want to say, but don’t want others to know. Mumbles make up our lives.
“You don’t have to do this” he mumbled. It was quiet, so quiet that I almost didn’t hear it. But I did. That was the problem: If I hadn’t heard, I wouldn’t have wanted to stay so badly. But I had to do it. It would be worth it in the end to save them.
i am mumbling right now. the word mumbling is weird. in fact, it’s very weird. i don’t know how i feel about it. but it is an action word. i like action words. because it reminds us that as humans, we are alive and active. i dread the day i am an old vegetable laying in bed, unable to do anything productive with my life. that day would suck extremely bad. and this is a lot harder than i thought.
“I’m sick and tired of you and your mumbling!” she yells.
“I’m sick and tired of you.” he says, with a calm voice. The mother was taken aback and took a deep breath, her face flushed to a pale white.
“I’m sorry, but you know I hate when you mumble.”
I can’t seem to speak or say what is really on my mind, out loud. But in my head the mumbles sound like echos. Through words and sounds, I mumble this song that keeps dancing around in my mind. Some day’s these mumbles
A mumbling voice interspersed with coughs and wheezing gasps.
A mumbled confession of something not quite friendship, but not quite anything less.
The mumbling grumble as the engine started up and decided it wasn’t quite worth the effort.
The sweet, silence that remained after they had finally parted.
I’m told I always mumble, mumbling is what I do.
I tend not to talk up for voice clearly, because mumbling is what I do.
I know what I want to say, and I want to be heard; but still I proceed to mumble, because mumbling is what I do.
quitely talking under your breath, annoying, makes it difficult to hear other people, drives me crazy, people normally do it when they are trying to hide something, whisper.
mumbling,
stumbling through words.
but it’s only because
i can’t open my mouth too much
or you’ll steal all of the thoughts
that are tripping over my tongue,
racing to reach you.
I kept mumbling my excuse over and over again like it would make it true. I knew I had messed up. I knew what I had done hurt someone I cared about. But I didn’t want to take responsibility. I just kept hoping that repeatly mumbling my lame excuse would make it all go away.
“From the perspective of the Spirit,” said the Soul, “It is you who are the ghosts, because without us, you are sadder than dead; to be alive and not rejoice in life? Now silence the voice of your mindless mumbling. Hear the rumbling of mountains that have yet to rise beneath the bare feet of your spirit…the one’s that feel it in their toes that the miracle is not to walk on water, but to walk on the earth; yes, to simply make steps on the glorious earth.”
From the perspective of the Spirit, said the Soul, It is you who are the ghosts, because without us, you are worse than dead; to be alive and not rejoice in life? Now silence the voice your mumbling mindless mind. hear the rumbling of mountains that have yet to rise beneath the feet of your spirit…the one’s that know the miracle is not to walk on water, but to walk on the earth; yes, to simply walk on the glorious earth.
From the perspective of the Spirit, said the Soul, It is you who are the ghosts, because without us, you are worse than dead; to be alive and not rejoice in life? Now silence the voice your mumbling mindless mind. hear the rumbling of mountains that have yet to rise across beneath the feet of your spirit…the one’s that walk the land up to the sky.
He heard mumbling, it was coming from the bathroom, the door slightly perched open. Carefully he crept toward the door and peered through the crack, making sure to go unnoticed. There was only one person in the bathroom, it was Janice, she was naked standing in front of a mirror leaning on the countertop in front of it; he could only get a glimpse of her round protruding butt. “I don’t want to fucking go to the goddamn funeral,” she said, “I’m glad that rotten motherfuckers dead anyways, why would I want to stand around and watch people bury him, crying over his grave? Madness.” He had never seen a naked woman before and his curiosity was aroused, if there was just a little more room to look through, he’d be able to see one for the first time. Carefully he nudged the edge of the door to open it more, his heart began to palpitate, beating so loud he thought she might hear it. He peered again through the crack to see a large scar that ran from her underarm to down to the front of her thigh, it looked clean almost with surgical persuasion, like someone took a knife and ran it down her torso. The boy became frightened, if she had caught him, she would know that he knew about her secret. He had to make a hasty retreat, gingerly moving his left leg backward and then his right, and again his left. A loud creek from the floor was sounded, it alerted alerted Janice, she knew that it was the sound made only when someone was walking on the old wood floor of the bedroom. She bolted to the door and slamed it open with horrifying intensity; to see a petrified 12 year old boy, who has an expression on his face as if he just wet his pants. It was the most beautifully horrific thing the boy had ever seen. As the two stood there, Janice not realizing she was naked, the boy began to get an erection.
As I mumble to myself I wonder if he notices. My hands wrapped around my books hugged to my chest. I’m always talking to myself across campus and then there he is. Oh no did he see, did he hear? I’m not all that weird. I just keep thinking out loud, or talking to God or going through lists in my head. Oh no did he see?
Mumbling is probably not the word you would use to describe the still small voice inside of you although some may wish to pass it off as such just so they can fool themselves into believing that they really did not hear it.
The mumbling idiot managed to muster up the courage to ask the beautiful woman one simple question. This question would define his life for years to come. “Will you love me forever?”
ozzy ozborne mumbles a lot because of all the drugs he was on and i have a friend named tim who mumbles. its fun comparing the two sometimes lol. what am i even wiriting i dont understand this ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Our perception only ever really takes in the present~ the stimulus of our immediate surroundings… a mumbling old man may once have been a skilled circus performer, a pioneering brain surgeon or an inventor of something that is now considered essential to daily life, but often as not, his ramblings will be taken with a pinch of salt as the immediate truth of what stands before you eclipses the faded reality of his heyday.
my friend and coworker brennan mumbles, and so does my old neighbor larry. one would think that both of these men were idiots, but i have learned that they are both very intelligent and industrious individuals. speak softly and carry a big stick was a saying of Teddy Roosevelt.
I tried to stop mumbling, because I needed to speak clearly. The problem was that I couldn’t. I couldn’t explain how much I love you. Everything you’ve ever done for me, the things you’ve done to help me, I just want to tell you all of my deepest darkest secrets and explore your inner beauty because I find you dazzling.
All we do is mumble. Day after day, we say words that have no meaning whatsoever. Why don’t we take that time to save a life. Learn something. Teach that something to someone else. Then mumbling becomes something better. Something that can encourage other people. Something that can make this life mean something more.
i sat on the bus. behind me, an elderly lady. my book was in my lap. i was taking a breather. loooking around. she tapped me on the shoulder. “are you ok dear? only i can hear you mumbling”.
someone pressed the bell, the bus slowed to a halt and several passengers alighted. when i looked out of the window, i noticed the reflection of the space behind me.
i couldn’t hear him.
i never could.
the words under his breath,
just a whisper,
prying it out.
i still can’t hear him.
dammit.
what did you say?
The sound of mumbling came from under the bed. The little boy was quaking with fear, uncertain of which direction he should run. The monster under his bed was angry, and he was hungry.
“–mumbling, underthings tumbling–”
in the background. It was a room full of Niel Patrick Harris fans, but no one was paying attention because we were all peeking out the window to figure out the source of the sounds coming from the neighbor’s house. We were starting to think the real party was at their place.
mumbling is like bumbling and reminds me of the word rumbling like a distant thunderstorm approaching from far away- like over the ocean and it is 2 in the morning and your dad has woken you and your brother up to see the storm slowly rolling in over the ocean in Montauk
“I need help,” he mumbled.
“What?” she asked. “I can’t hear you, hon, you’re mumbling.”
“I need help,” he repeated, a little bit louder.
Again, “What?” she cried. “I can’t hear you!”
“I said, I need help.”
“Huh? You really should speak up. I can’t hear a word you just said.”
“Just forget it.” The boy threw his pencil down and stood up. He then walked away, out of the school, out of the town, out of the world, never to be seen again.
“What were you mumbling about earlier?”
“Nothing.”
Mrs. Zelvig looked cross. “Don’t lie to me, Gabrielle. What were you mumbling?”
“Nothing. Really, nothing.”
“Nothing at all, or nothing you consider important?”
Gabrielle whipped her head up from her resting spot on her desk. “Whatever, Mrs. Zelvig! Christ! Would it kill you not to pick on me for at least one day right in front of the class?”
It’s what I do under my breath when something is too brilliant or devious to be said out loud. My mumblings are more my true self than any well thought out utterance could be.
Mumbling reveals something about each and every one of us. There are mumbles of the mind, which tell us our deepest wants and wishes. There are mumbles out loud, which tell us what we want to say, but don’t want others to know. Mumbles make up our lives.
“You don’t have to do this” he mumbled. It was quiet, so quiet that I almost didn’t hear it. But I did. That was the problem: If I hadn’t heard, I wouldn’t have wanted to stay so badly. But I had to do it. It would be worth it in the end to save them.
i am mumbling right now. the word mumbling is weird. in fact, it’s very weird. i don’t know how i feel about it. but it is an action word. i like action words. because it reminds us that as humans, we are alive and active. i dread the day i am an old vegetable laying in bed, unable to do anything productive with my life. that day would suck extremely bad. and this is a lot harder than i thought.
“I’m sick and tired of you and your mumbling!” she yells.
“I’m sick and tired of you.” he says, with a calm voice. The mother was taken aback and took a deep breath, her face flushed to a pale white.
“I’m sorry, but you know I hate when you mumble.”
I can’t seem to speak or say what is really on my mind, out loud. But in my head the mumbles sound like echos. Through words and sounds, I mumble this song that keeps dancing around in my mind. Some day’s these mumbles
“What was that?” Grantaire nudged Enjolras. “I can’t understand you, you’re mumbling.”
Enjolras closed his eyes. He took a deep breath in through his nose, then slowly expelled it through his mouth. He removed his headphones.
“Grantaire,” he said. “For the last time. I am /not. Talking. To you.”/
A mumbling voice interspersed with coughs and wheezing gasps.
A mumbled confession of something not quite friendship, but not quite anything less.
The mumbling grumble as the engine started up and decided it wasn’t quite worth the effort.
The sweet, silence that remained after they had finally parted.
I found myself mumbling as I walked around my house. Why, oh why do I care so much? Why can’t I just let him go. He obviously doesn’t care about me.
I’m told I always mumble, mumbling is what I do.
I tend not to talk up for voice clearly, because mumbling is what I do.
I know what I want to say, and I want to be heard; but still I proceed to mumble, because mumbling is what I do.
quiet…
in the library; book prison, rather.
pages turning, lignin in the air.
People mumbling about treasures
lost and found amongst paper and ink.
quitely talking under your breath, annoying, makes it difficult to hear other people, drives me crazy, people normally do it when they are trying to hide something, whisper.
mumbling,
stumbling through words.
but it’s only because
i can’t open my mouth too much
or you’ll steal all of the thoughts
that are tripping over my tongue,
racing to reach you.
I kept mumbling my excuse over and over again like it would make it true. I knew I had messed up. I knew what I had done hurt someone I cared about. But I didn’t want to take responsibility. I just kept hoping that repeatly mumbling my lame excuse would make it all go away.
I mumbled through gritted teeth and through the water droplets piercing my lips. Ice. Muffled ice filled words.
“From the perspective of the Spirit,” said the Soul, “It is you who are the ghosts, because without us, you are sadder than dead; to be alive and not rejoice in life? Now silence the voice of your mindless mumbling. Hear the rumbling of mountains that have yet to rise beneath the bare feet of your spirit…the one’s that feel it in their toes that the miracle is not to walk on water, but to walk on the earth; yes, to simply make steps on the glorious earth.”
From the perspective of the Spirit, said the Soul, It is you who are the ghosts, because without us, you are worse than dead; to be alive and not rejoice in life? Now silence the voice your mumbling mindless mind. hear the rumbling of mountains that have yet to rise beneath the feet of your spirit…the one’s that know the miracle is not to walk on water, but to walk on the earth; yes, to simply walk on the glorious earth.
From the perspective of the Spirit, said the Soul, It is you who are the ghosts, because without us, you are worse than dead; to be alive and not rejoice in life? Now silence the voice your mumbling mindless mind. hear the rumbling of mountains that have yet to rise across beneath the feet of your spirit…the one’s that walk the land up to the sky.
He heard mumbling, it was coming from the bathroom, the door slightly perched open. Carefully he crept toward the door and peered through the crack, making sure to go unnoticed. There was only one person in the bathroom, it was Janice, she was naked standing in front of a mirror leaning on the countertop in front of it; he could only get a glimpse of her round protruding butt. “I don’t want to fucking go to the goddamn funeral,” she said, “I’m glad that rotten motherfuckers dead anyways, why would I want to stand around and watch people bury him, crying over his grave? Madness.” He had never seen a naked woman before and his curiosity was aroused, if there was just a little more room to look through, he’d be able to see one for the first time. Carefully he nudged the edge of the door to open it more, his heart began to palpitate, beating so loud he thought she might hear it. He peered again through the crack to see a large scar that ran from her underarm to down to the front of her thigh, it looked clean almost with surgical persuasion, like someone took a knife and ran it down her torso. The boy became frightened, if she had caught him, she would know that he knew about her secret. He had to make a hasty retreat, gingerly moving his left leg backward and then his right, and again his left. A loud creek from the floor was sounded, it alerted alerted Janice, she knew that it was the sound made only when someone was walking on the old wood floor of the bedroom. She bolted to the door and slamed it open with horrifying intensity; to see a petrified 12 year old boy, who has an expression on his face as if he just wet his pants. It was the most beautifully horrific thing the boy had ever seen. As the two stood there, Janice not realizing she was naked, the boy began to get an erection.
the talking doesnt work
i dont talk, says them.
i am not sure why i dont like to talk
we have the most to say
wasting.
As I mumble to myself I wonder if he notices. My hands wrapped around my books hugged to my chest. I’m always talking to myself across campus and then there he is. Oh no did he see, did he hear? I’m not all that weird. I just keep thinking out loud, or talking to God or going through lists in my head. Oh no did he see?
Mumbling is probably not the word you would use to describe the still small voice inside of you although some may wish to pass it off as such just so they can fool themselves into believing that they really did not hear it.
It’s a quiet whisper, an incomplete thought striving to be heard; NEEDING to be heard. But no one notices, it’s just a mumble. Who cares for them?
The mumbling idiot managed to muster up the courage to ask the beautiful woman one simple question. This question would define his life for years to come. “Will you love me forever?”
“what did you say?”
“what was that?”
“sorry, i didn’t hear you?”
my penchant for ceasing to listen halfway through a conversation mixed with what i can only guess is hearing loss. maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
whole cities understand you
“I can’t hear you. You need to speak up.”
“I said, ‘I did it.’ It was me.”
“There, that wasn’t too hard now wasn’t it?”
ozzy ozborne mumbles a lot because of all the drugs he was on and i have a friend named tim who mumbles. its fun comparing the two sometimes lol. what am i even wiriting i dont understand this ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Our perception only ever really takes in the present~ the stimulus of our immediate surroundings… a mumbling old man may once have been a skilled circus performer, a pioneering brain surgeon or an inventor of something that is now considered essential to daily life, but often as not, his ramblings will be taken with a pinch of salt as the immediate truth of what stands before you eclipses the faded reality of his heyday.
my friend and coworker brennan mumbles, and so does my old neighbor larry. one would think that both of these men were idiots, but i have learned that they are both very intelligent and industrious individuals. speak softly and carry a big stick was a saying of Teddy Roosevelt.
I tried to stop mumbling, because I needed to speak clearly. The problem was that I couldn’t. I couldn’t explain how much I love you. Everything you’ve ever done for me, the things you’ve done to help me, I just want to tell you all of my deepest darkest secrets and explore your inner beauty because I find you dazzling.
The world is a crazy place. evil mumbling over goodness.
I don’t always feel this way, just now in Boston.
All we do is mumble. Day after day, we say words that have no meaning whatsoever. Why don’t we take that time to save a life. Learn something. Teach that something to someone else. Then mumbling becomes something better. Something that can encourage other people. Something that can make this life mean something more.
i sat on the bus. behind me, an elderly lady. my book was in my lap. i was taking a breather. loooking around. she tapped me on the shoulder. “are you ok dear? only i can hear you mumbling”.
someone pressed the bell, the bus slowed to a halt and several passengers alighted. when i looked out of the window, i noticed the reflection of the space behind me.