It is her. She is sitting. Where? The room. What could be said about her room? It wasn’t hers, she was only inhabiting it for the moment, not the moment, she’d been here a while and would stay a while longer, really she didn’t know why. Didn’t particularly like it here. A small space, always a small space, just too confined for comfort, walls too drab to be interesting. Can’t forget the lighting, that was always sure to be subpar, everything cast in a dim light. Hardly a trouble for her now, eyes having adapted, that explains this. The pony body so damnably resilient, never one to give in, whether she wanted or not. Never once asked her opinion. Not a matter, she had no opinion one way or another really, that aspect had long been beaten out of her, no not beaten out, she’d never had it, had known right from the start better than to move in that direction. Known better than to move in any direction, the still was much better. Still. She’d been sitting still for some time time now, in the center, not a motion to be seen. Wasn’t sure how much longer this could be sustained, and this awareness was only making it worse. As a statue. And now she could feel the cramps, suffering back and sore flanks, limbs asleep. That was the worst, the tingling in the limbs, sensation where she desired none. Tendons tightening, spine strained, blood pooling. Ignore it, be granite and it’ll go away and empty death take its place, easier said than done. She doesn’t want to move but doesn’t want to endure. Holds her breath but awareness only heightens. They won’t let up. Pins squirming under her skin, so many and it’s too much. Damn. She gives in, slowly raising the right hoof, almost if unsure, but course is sure and steady, raising until appendage parallel with ground. Stretch the foreleg, savor the aches of muscle, confounded meat gets its wish. Return it down, then the other. Back still aches, need to rise for that one, rise to full stature and stretch the hindlegs. And that did it, blood was flowing in the veins now, she was started. Now she was in motion. Taking an initial step forward, then another and another soon to follow, given in to the pacing. Around and around. It would be a while of creaking floorboards now. She wasn’t good enough to stop once started. Not when her limbs were against her, they had what they wanted, what she owed. Wasn’t that it, she had to advance, owed it to them, she was guilty. Of what? They’d never told her. Or no they had, they must have, they insisted they had told her. When they’d first encountered or at some later date, them in person all together or more likely by an emissary, easier with one. That was on her head as well, they had told her and she’d forgotten. Ought to feel ashamed, she knew. That was her, never good enough, always just short of success, or more likely entirely off target. And not even adept at failure, when she desired such, when the occasional bout of defiance took hold and she aimed to fail at their assigned tasks, no luck there that always turned out just what they wanted as well. Couldn’t do much right at all. In and out with the rigor. She couldn’t remember that part, ah well hopefully the particulars weren’t necessary for what they wanted, whatever debt she needed to repay. They were intent on collecting, that was stark, they’d gone this far and would follow her to the ends as well. Blood, that was the payment, not shed but infused. They were the reason she was unable to be still, why she was here. She had to live, they wanted her up and at it existing in places just like them and walking around accomplishing goals. This wasn’t enough, they wanted her traveling down roads, from a point A to a point B then C, so on. And it should go without saying this whole subject was beyond her, if that was what was truly required in order for them to feel obligation satisfied. Living well, coordinated motion and getting places. She was entirely helpless in her muck. Couldn’t enlist a willing help if she tried, there was misfortune at every step, her road to travel down alone, remember with faithful feet, hurry on to B silent cloudy, don’t take a wrong turn, you’re in the marsh now. Road, what road? There’s no path in sight, no beginning nor end, simply move, forward blindly any direction will do, we’ve thrown the reference points out the window, that’s the only part she’s covered. If was a map it’s long gone, we lost that too. It would be in character for them to provide a map, to say they’d done their part, and no complication be spared, incomprehensibly riddled with hieroglyphs and muddling irrelevancies but all the necessary information would be there. The devil’s in the details. And everywhere else. She wouldn’t understand a lick of it but once again that’d be her failing. And what then? She’d have to put forth her best effort despite, wishing the best. Hopefully please them enough that then let her be done with this, end to the motion. No such luck, they prodded her on with promise. Had to go on with an aching stomach. She tried to rub it as a comfort but couldn’t quite reach, flesh being in the way. Likely muscle too, maybe some rib. The stomach would have to carry on without her caresses. Little wonder it was ever upset when considering the state of things and her pitiful hygiene. They’d probably given it instruction as well. To keep reminder of how diseased she was. Cavity in and out, so askew perhaps she’d come out that way. There was a line. Her sickness, her original sin, she came out the cunt a guilty wretch and they were going to fix her. Them who’d given this room. Bind her up and stuff her with a mouthful of mud, to which she’s no stranger. None the stranger. She required such assistance, was unable to function properly. Majority of her organs were in disorder. It gave her persistent diarrhea not just for the posterior but all cavities, all holes gushing their given streams, shit flowing out the anus, sights and colors the oculae, sound pouring out the ears, words spewing from gabbing maw the worst of all. The things she said of all lengths and shapes and odors approved by them. From flapping pink lips, an accurate representation would go such as: I had a light once, fine bright thing it was, shining in all directions and illuminating corners for me so as to provide a sense of my surroundings, yes it could be said I hardly got lost at that time, or rather the frequency with which I lost my bearings and made a misstep, or several compounding upon each other, was greatly reduced thanks to that little bulb radiating photons in all directions. Shining light, that’s an important thing, must have light and radiance spreading their glow over all surfaces for proper step.
And she had to step, she was stepping. Traverse in a circle, around and around. How long? Don’t ask, better not to keep count. Easier. Keep the motion easy if it must be. To their credit walking solid matter was preferable than travel by air or sea. Of the time she’d existed, she had invested careful scrutiny to ensure little was spent on those. Sleeping, fear, incapability, any old distraction would be adequate. But would distractions hasten or prolong the process? The light was particularly dark in one corner and she was forced to confront it at each subsequent revolution. It is unsure what to choose to focus on and how to go about it. She’d like to latch onto a single subject and articulate about it through the duration. Or murmur illegibly without pretense and take comfort in the blatancy, as though farming stone. It would be enjoyable, for some moments, yet the mind won’t conform. And it must be admitted that would not be a satisfactory result. And this is all in her head, thought is consuming enough there is no demand of physical speech. That much she has learned from them, that there can be worse ways of communication and functioning. The sound of her hoofsteps sufficient to fill a book anyhow. Little doubt it’d find an audience. Of her reading there was great depth into the strange, she was keen for such exotic morsels. Where was her book, with the little red spine and marker creases? Oh the things she’d put in head then. That was part of the problem her always putting things in undesirable or incorrect places, where they did not belong, or acquiring and placing things that have no belonging to any nameable location. But there are no objects in this room. Never fear, she is safe from that at this instance. Nothing at all to enact but maintain her stride or try to end it, whichever held more struggle. Here she was still tracing orbits, soon to be in a rut. Which at least might provide an illustration to work out from, if she was apt to follow their lead. She is not. She is meant to, it is what she has been informed is best, time and time again. They knew the way. There’s one of her numerous faults, that she doesn’t accept it, doesn’t want to prosper. If left to her own devices she'd be rotting on the floorboards. Rather she wouldn’t be, wasn’t it them that had brought her here, with their incessant divine sparks? Without there’d be no she, right where she wanted. Nowhere was better than here. Her lungs feel constricted. They could keep their sensation, she was only a pony on the inside. It was soon said she was not the full vessel. She didn’t have that glow they were so fond to flaunt, she couldn’t keep up even if wished. The whole venture was a futile gaffe to all involved parties if you asked her, not even quality work. Walls were erected on faulty foundations. No windows to be had. There’s no use for windows. They’ll provide the light, they’ll give it, she needs to see. The room is dim. What did she expect? That’s all she ever had, all she ever needed. Snake oil salesman be damned, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the rest said, suited her just fine. All the better to sit in. To induce sitting, and maybe even lying if circumstances fit. It was a pleasant occasion, one that called for lying down on chest or back, any side of the trunk would be suitable as long as able to be still. Lying on your back in the dark. Then all attention could be put toward silencing the mind. That’s what she’d really like to be doing currently. An appealing sentiment, back in the corner dead. No more sentiments then. But it could hardly be managed now, so lit with unrest. Misguided choice of words. But on with it despite. Always been one of those that didn’t really get it. Wanted all the wrong things. To hell with guilt. It was mounting. These misshapen circles were awful, her form was loosening. She had to stop, give up. Wasn’t good enough to go on by all accounts. These words are ruining her. So relinquish, cease the squirming and spit out the hook, stop walking. She needs to stop but she can’t. Stop and start never again. No motion, not the slightest twitch, expel it all out and denounce those wretched ideas, put out the last spark, only empty nothing, less than nothing. Enough pretend, the hours are up, give them up and wave goodbye, not even, no funny thoughts, none of it, stop this endless pacing, let her stop, nothing forward, just let it all be still, stop walking, their fucking advancement, all too much, the feet are still going, won’t halt, she can’t, can’t hold it in, this motion, this voice jibber-jabbering, got to let it out, let the beast loose and raging, devour all the peasants and trample the world in a black flame and gnashing teeth!
But that was still them talking, not her, not her the meek one. Not from her little room, all alone in the calm and quiet. She had no need for that, she had her books to distract. Have her spin up some of her stories then, call them memories, it isn’t known what they are, only images in her head. No difference really, nothing notable as far as you can tell. She’d had a book. She read it to pass the time. A biology text, cram packed with dog-eared pages, yellowing with age and faded illustrations. Dwelling on tendons and blood vessels had been a prime activity and at one point she’d been able to name off the stuff she was made of. All out of mind now. But it had once been. What must have been hours had passed staring at until passed asleep. Then it would fall out of hooves to the floor, dulling one of the corners. Sometimes she’d fall out of chair as well. She’d had a chair then, she’d read her books from on top the chair. And for study, did she take notes with a journal? Not likely she had one. Never did quite master, or improve to any reasonable degree, the skill of competent hoofwriting. Too busy with the exercises for that, racing up and down roads, training the appendages such as a genuine athlete. Or was it bucking trees? Bah, doesn’t matter, maybe it was both or none or one. What use was hoofwriting anyway, she’d never had anything to write about. So it was at this. She was brought to panting now, not from the walking though its horrors should not be diminished. These subjects were distant and it was a chore to remember. It was of no interest anyhow, staring at the floor was more entertaining. Stronger than flame but duller than dirt, never able win that one, to outrun or beat decay. Ah yes, that’s what they’ll say about her, she was able to conquer heaven and hell but in the end, it was the ground that swallowed her up. An arbitrary chasm, a quake to shake the earth fit for her. Worm food just like her little animals. She was a little animal, a mite. They knew her, all about her, they knew her tricks. Wise to the game, couldn’t pull the wool over their eyes, pull out the rug or swindle the soul away to paradise, theirs were locked up tight. They said they knew her. They did not. No one could not her, not when she didn’t even know herself. There wasn’t anything to know about her, nothing to think, she was nothing, on the whole insignificant, still a mite, not even, a speck. To be swallowed up in the belly of the whale. And who were they? Why were they? Hours at end on this question, with thoughtful expressions, of course to little result. She’d dwelt with certain conclusions at some times or others but never anything firm. And they were no help. They were here to help. She’d asked them. It was irrelevant. Behave, they said, behave if you know what’s best. Behave? If they’d bothered to mention how, she certainly would have. Or maybe they had but only neglected to confirm her comprehension. Whatever the case she’d done her best there, she’d thought, and that had been little help, just look where she was now. A room. Four at last count, four walls! An answer here would be favorable, as she was trapped in pacing, where had she gone wrong to deserve this? It was the soup. Wasn’t it. The time she had not finished off her alphabet soup. Belly full and mind elsewhere, back when she’d believed in motion, still ignorant of its consequence, she’d been eager to proceed on and had left it. What a fool she’d been. Don’t finish your soup and this is where you end up, this is what they do with you. It was the end, this beginning, she was in the middle of it forever. What a terrible fate she must live up to, there was nothing to call it, there’s no name for this, not that she knew. And she knew nothing, had managed that much, not even herself. Could it even be said she knew her own name? For her, a name? Ha, what’s the use of that, no point to it, she’d never needed a name before. There was no name for what she was, it was better that way. No, once you plastered on a name, that was when the real troubled started. That’d be the end of the game. Once you’ve given consent, then they start shoving all manner of conceptions and ideas into the head without reprieve. No use telling them you don’t want it, you’re getting along just fine and there’s no extra space besides, they’ll only cram it anyhow till the space’s a mess and the head stretched out so far and weighed down till walking becomes a chore. That was all good a name did you. Look where she was now. Locked up in a box to be sent up to heaven. But at least the current surroundings, in the meanwhile, were not so offensive. A small mercy, the walls. These were a simple sort. Well worn sparse plaster. She saw them and they were good. Don’t hope for something real, no need of that. The wheels were turning and clattering and she’d chase after. On the old tracks again, gray as ever spanning ever, trailing along with crooked legs, occasionally glancing to the past. A reminder. Her hooves, what were they doing? What recently had they trampled beneath their worn fetlocks? She had a half a mind to ask them, not saying much considering what she started with, but it was no matter to the feet, they did as they were told, obedient, good little soldiers ever conquering the ground in their forward march. She might tell them it was futile. They’d never win, there’d always be more earth. But it was what they took joy in. Far be it from her to rob her legs of that. They were her companions in this journey, she might say that much. Always with her from the start. Oncoming, praise and describe them, their victories. Her trustworthy left foreleg with splotchy fur, that one was indispensable, ever at the ready for writing and wringing, gripping and pounding objects. Solid hoof. The fur was irregular and matted, she picked at it, it was a nervous or had been habit. She’d done it with the other, her right foreleg she used for feeding the mouth. She’d beaten down giants with it. Of her hind legs, her right one had contributed its fair share as well. Likely her strongest limb, it held her proud, with glossy fur and adequate muscle for running. Left hind leg as well. It held her up. That one could do with improvement. Approach competence. A counter laden with parts and limbs sanitized and ready. Approach and inspect the various options. Focus to legs. A nice long calf complete with attached hoof, fit just right, nub on the anterior for suitable connecting. This will be hers, it is a good choice. Grasp it, feel the surface, feel the rim, checking for irregularities and finding none. Fit for a corpse and just the sort of appendage she needed. Attach, fix on the new and go on to claim mountains and mine pits. She’d fall in the first ditch to happen across. Love and pain become one and the same in these spheres. So she’ll get up and climb out to fall again, at the next, which will be deeper. She’ll get up and go. Fall into deeper and deeper ditch until finally the endless abyss from which there was no surfacing, plummeting perpetually in the ancient dark, last fruit of failure she’d ever not see. Nothing to worry, it’d be nothing. It was nothing, her nothing, the misty void she was so familiar with, wouldn’t dare part if it could be helped. Cradled in empty decline a swallowing vacuum with searing aroma. If anything that was where she belonged, not this room. She’d never meant to escape it, done nothing toward such, that was the meddling of others. Them bringing her into being, their fault, being the culprits with their serpentine conjurations. Lending her to it. Therefore then, wouldn’t be too much to say with that in account that they were burdened with the responsibility for her. For anything she did when all she wanted was to do not. Decidedly easier than this suffering to rouse. To her it seemed plain logic, more efficient to refrain, easier to have not than have. Something they never understood, them who sat in rows and professed such fondness for reasoning and triumphs yet insisting this madness. Civilized, the mark of a higher creature, don’t snicker, meant to be enjoyed, how she couldn’t see, such unendurable ruckus. All a shouting match. Tied up and together, held up by rods under the hide, bound into something resembling an individual and set to their work. Flap the gums, jabbering jaws, spittle and all, raising volume to drown every else out, there’s a victory if ever was, ever could, was ever needed. Win and claim your pain.
Why did they so insist? There must be some laudable justification to it. Could they be so satisfied to see her with tear in each eye? Symmetry in the face, that was a good trait she’d confess. Her head was a good feature to have as well. Skull was where she resided, or at least the house of it, her brain being understood as her seat of existence. On a ranked list of things in order of good to bad, heads would be firmly situated the top quarter. List itself would be stored there as well. Where she knew things and hid the thoughts. All there. It spins on, a whole world existing inside her head. A family, divorced mother and son and daughter in a small house with compacted yard, white picket fence rimming. Enclosed sky, identical houses lining the block, world in a kernel. The violet tinges need no garden, no one to keep a garden. Mother sits in the dining room, head in hooves, staring out to the lawn. Hours like this. Hours on end sitting still, all movement kept to a minimum. Careful to hide any trace of a potential. Body heat fading to the level of the cold floor. All still. Even the mental gymnastics, on exceptional occasions. Light from window dimming at regular pace. Still until dark. Not a stranger to the dark of course, crevices were her close companion and sufficed for comfort whenever necessary. Her spawn had sprung off. The children once admirable students of course, her pride and joy now disillusioned and delinquent. Mommy dearest, let us go out and play. Superseded, Mom, the friends are hosting a social gathering we will be away all night. Or more likely a note, Gone out be home tomorrow. Go to your desk and complete your manuscripts. That’s what she would say, if asked. They did not ask. Velvet was, no, not her. A different name for this. Pneumonia, no confusion there, Pneumonia was anguished and did not understand it, she’d done her best to raise her darling children, her small bundles of joy that used to love her so much. They were grown and joyless. Nights were spent staring into the darkness, sucking on lead and wondering what had taken course. Some so well that passed asleep without facing the bedroom. The bed that still had a smell. Her husband had loved her, she was sure of it, she’d been loved. He’d loved her so much he’d sought another mare. She’d been loved and that was a force greater than this realm. Slander is not the answer. But she’d been loved by her husband and it had mattered. And her children, it’s not necessary they have names. Her children loved her—she loved her children. She often recited such. That explains why her life was arranged around them. And her other loved ones who’d held ambitions that needed tending. Pneumonia had been on task there and she’d always done as asked, as meant. Worked hard and given much. So as to why she’d not earned her rewards and affections was a mystery, no doubt the blame rested on some error or delinquency of hers which she’d yet to resolve. It was a common thought for her as she stared into the yard, searching the weeds for secrets. Who knew, all the places they snuck off to. Keeping her in this short house with its demanding costs. But she was home right now and she only needed to stare ahead until the light went out and she was not. Maybe permit a rotation or two in the chair to examine the walls, only a brief diversion, she’d done enough of that already. There was some sense of progress. She’d at least moved passed that and so she might someday move passed this. Pay off the debts of isolation, before the lights go out. Not these, the dimming sun then burning candle, she wanted these lights out quick, but her light, of life. She needed to reach the part where there was a loving, or at least amiable, family before her vitality went out. Pneumonia did. Wasn’t able to go it alone, she needed salvation. One day her son or daughter would arrive home and speak words to her. One day her husband would reappear. These were the things Pneumonia was waiting for. She had to wait since she was unable to acquire them about for herself. Looked to the world. Her view of the front lawn was useful for this. Sometimes it was noticed the grass had grown and then later that it had shrunk. The culprit for that went unknown, the mare always arrived home late. Can’t do it on her own. Darling children no longer go out to play. She returns home to watch the light fade. That dream wouldn’t fade. The memories were yet she went on. The light’s gone out. It’s been said she lights a candle then. Only some of the time, less than half. The dark requires less motion. Less thought. This makes it easier to anticipate, for her light to wear out, no, for her to gain it. Pneumonia must wait until time to receive her love, as they see fit. Pneumonia is inadequate, that much has been said. She needs them, to help. With what, dwindling in her chair doesn’t require help. Not the chair, to live. She needs to live, needs love to live, they said so. No, she’s waiting in the chair because they said so, since they told her such promises. What they’ve been slipping in her ear from the beginning, on how to live properly, how to become alive, be wife and mother, requires her to be subjected to this routine. Sacrifices must be made, to others, if one desires happiness, for themself. The chair has lost its padding, that’s not so comfortable. Womb is crooked. Would not it be a reasonable assumption Pneumonia had been happier before she’d given birth to blooming shackles and left to sink by her spouse? Then, might not it be said Pneumonia would have been better off without? Nonsense, she needed love, from children. Her children that had loved her when they’d held no words or wills. There was a memory for her to dwell on. Pneumonia sits with head in hooves staring out the window, but that is more than she sees. And sometimes, without notice, her gaze drifts down to the table. This table is a joy. It is something for her to hold, an aid for one fixed to a certain point. A comfort that should be sufficient. Why must Pneumonia settle for sufficiencies with a whole yard at the least residing straight out the window? No, shouldn’t ask. Well that can hardly be expected, for her to ask for nothing more than to suck her lead in silence. It leaves her inclined to reason, nothing good can come of that. Light is fading. They don’t like Pneumonia to quarrel. So sits each night in the dark, not enough. What they’d promised, what they’d said she needed, they were for her benefit. In the dark, requires more, needs to get on, her children. Her radiant children. Dusk done, sun set. In the dark, Pneumonia is once more in the dark, does she light a candle? Some occasions she lights a candle, it’s been said, is this, should this be one of those nights? If so pleases the children. Pneumonia is in the dark, waiting for her recompense. Clutching the table. Looking ahead, she’s been looking ahead for years. Will someone help her, light a candle for her? She’s needed a candle for years, needs a candle, hers burnt out, to the wick. Dusk done, sun set, candle out, she has no candle, loved ones give no candle, not the children, they wish her none, have none. Watch her rise and, no, too late. The light’s out, it’s gone out, there’s nothing to light, nothing with which to light, there is no light. Enough mucking about, let’s come out with it, there is no love.
Well then that explains a thing or two. They were not friends or companions in any sense, her to them, them to her, and perhaps them to each other. Of what they’d told her and what she could recall it was evidently all lies. Tirelessly they insisted it was for her, to her benefit, of her desire, and even sometimes that it was by her. That this was all her own doing, imagine, one of her little magic shows. No, don’t, try not to. It must be them, there must be a them. How else do we—does she explain this, turning up here and knowing these things? It was their fault she was subjected to this meaningless hell, them convoluting her to be full of vitality and live just like them, them with hooves up her bum dancing her around as their puppet. What a wonderful show it must be. None of this charade was fitted to her, none of it stemmed from her desire. She the unwilling star performer of the party, exerting tirelessly to no pay or cake or reward whatsoever. All merely for them, in their front seats snickering and muttering amongst each other. So proud of their designs, solely for their pleasures. This all was a burden on her and she was still treading in the room. Feet aching worse than before, but she was compelled to motion in this bumbling thought. There was a time, she used to cherish motion. What little she’d known then. Conquered land, sea and sky with endless boasts in flurry of speed, hadn't she? If there was one good result, it was that she’d likely sped up her decay significantly, wearing and tearing the joints beyond repair. Beyond salvation then. She’d like to see what they could do with such a broken specimen then. Perhaps that was the trick. Had to move first, get it all out, use up all her essence and finally be done with it. She’d trail circles and circles around the globe, hobbling with generous friction on the limbs and when those gone on her trunk as she squirmed and crawled, ever on until the end. Erode herself with life until nothing more than a pile of dust. That’d be her reward for good obedience. That’s what they’d tell her, when all was said and done. All said and done. They’d still be unable to stop themselves. Of course it could never be so simple. Even then, after all that toil and squirming, even then they would not let her be done with it. They’d sweep her ashes back together and the agitations would not cease despite no instigation or reason. Or they’d invent a new reason, huddled close with amused whispers and scheming hands, drawing up new plans. Oh they’d put their heads together and come out with something, anything convincing or plausible enough to keep her at work, they were ingenious at that. Such unnecessary waste, it could hardly be expected for one to choose this upon themself. That was a ridiculous notion if any. All their notions were, it is a wonder they didn’t get mixed up themselves. But they weren’t, that was sure, it is all too sure, their intention is too meticulous and crafted. Trajectory so damningly straight while her steps were anything but. As she was so fond of saying, she did not want to participate at all, despite what they’d claimed. With her so clearly stating her disapproval, how could they assert she was wrong not to pursue their idea of good? It wasn’t what she wanted in any contortion of the matter. How could they expect her to ask no questions? It was them that drove her to liveliness. Drove her dizzy. The whole ordeal was a divide from her, will and essence being directed toward the opposite. Such contradictions could have no origin in her. It seems obvious that crunch would drive her to such turmoil as ambulation. If only she still had a chair to rest easy in, a nice high back chair with firm and cushioned seating, more than suitable for reclining, tilting back, with the eyes shut. Periodically stroking the seam on the edge, lost to sensation with no further thought inhabiting, all troubles supported by the comfortable padding. Or she’d doze and dream. Let’s say she would prefer lively thought and silent introspection to eroding motion if left unconscious. Is that how she’d began? No, no, you’ve got to keep in the thick of what you’re doing, because if you stand back and take a look, it all unravels. Left with nothing but regrets then. No more of that, enough tears for this run, best to move onto happy subjects. There must be a way to advance this, not forward like they want, but to the end. To reach back to before she’d budded. It was a worthy future to grin at, she lets herself do so, her having gone and bearing nothing any longer. What she needed was to pull the plug on their smoke and lights. Take a page from their blasphemous book and move straight, or attempt so.
No more circles then, she starts pacing directly. To the east wall, to the west wall, then again. Back and forth, eight paces to, eight paces from. She’ll beat them at their game. Don’t lick the walls, that only admits to failure. Nothing she was a stranger to. Yes, maybe this would fail as well, but it was better than blatantly revolving. It was more honest but that never got her anywhere, it was fabrications, there are no points for good behavior. So initiating a new operation would undoubtedly carry her farther. And was this new, or had she done it before? To lean on the familiar, her hooves hadn’t once carried her anywhere yet. Perhaps it was a physical complication such as flaw in the anatomy. A pony’s body being just not suited to travelable terrain or carrying such loads. She could do with a better form there, something fit for fighting them off. If she’d been born a wasp, light and hostile. Vicious yet. An angry hornet, great big yellow thorax with sharp stinger, dripping with venom, deadly and reeking of the foulest hatred, poised on the precipice with an eager expression. There’s a killer conception. Perched on a ledge, a leaf, ready to consume prey. Wouldn’t they be proud, when she stung all to oblivion. But she was more a beetle sort. Used to know one, very upstanding fellow, looked great in his uniform. he’d been her doctor. She’d come in with some ache or other and he’d wag his stringy antenna and know just the serum or salve or valve or pill for the case. Those were reassuring times. It was then she’d developed the phrase, Always best to have a beetle for the job. Certainly she’d do better off as a beetle than hornet. But on the doctor, she’d gained much from his visits, in both health and information she must have come out the better, since for her to not be drained yet she must have cached at a previous point. If only had the foresight to receive vaccination against that. Even so in the waiting room where was free to flee at any time. She supposed she had enjoyed the decor, oh it had been captivating. And the wait. While waiting she’d sit in her plastic chair, holding it fast, eagerly looking around at the other supplicants. No she never needed it, it would sit on her first. Better yet, it wouldn’t dare touch her, it never believed in her. So she’d grab a medical magazine and pass the time reading that eyes glued to every page, it held so many pictures and pages, full of them, hundreds of pages to read. All her life was turning pages, page after rancid page, no, not even the pages needed her, all her life was pages turning, page after page, at constant pace never once letting up, never once granting her reprieve, they opposed her. There’s the idea, they were working against her, turning their sheets at her, the book’s affront to her lewd display. Keep at that sort. Mood should be preserved in order to progress, that seemed to be what was happening. She was dragging her horse around for certain. It held a refreshing scent to say the least, dead and maggot-infested, smells of the grave made good company. Wrong, it made poor company. Did she have any companions at all in her little adventures? No legs. The rooms could be said to be her company. They weren’t any, there was no need. To hell with them. How indecisive. A quick death would be preferable at this juncture in time, but the thought of such miracles is laughable. Little hope for that, the probabilities are narrow and she’s no blessed rainbow in this state. What was destroyed can never die. What was dead can never be destroyed. What could she do with that, only what she would. But it did seem inevitable at some point, either she or they had to run out of fuel at some point. Or maybe after an eternity of failure they’d finally tire of her and wander off in disinterest. This surely couldn’t be so interesting, it was not for her. A lapse in judgement. They had no limit when it came to inconveniencing her, she’d sooner achieve their goal randomly despite her best efforts than that. They needed placation. There was something, if only she could remember, that would be the key, a certain thing to be recalled and the matter could finally be put to rest. Done with. She could end. But not again with that excrement, no more of the old refuse, she’d had enough treading in the same grooves, think of something new. Outside the boundaries, escape the confines, her mind was a prison. Get outside, break through to the other, the ether, untapped and unknown potential, there must be, something more. No, nothing more. Not escape, but disintegration. There was nothing to pursue in the previous direction. Oh she’d be the first to admit, it had once occurred to her that there is a tangible possibility something worthwhile might be accomplished in this existence and assuming so, it is morally obligated of her to pursue such a goal. Experience, of course, had proved her wrong on all counts. She’d had her fill. It was them that wouldn’t let up, with their buttery voices, assuring her she was mistaken. Here she was at backwards forwards gait and it wasn’t enough, they would drive her to yet more. That there was more to be had than pacing in her room. She did enjoy that chair, it had made the revolutions more interesting, looking at it from differing angles. But that was only her making the best out of what they put her to, as they stood above with their soothing whispers. Treacherous vocals sent down to her in varying pitch, pretending at sounds of the ocean, the comfort of a shell. Their damned divine muttering that had dredged her up from the muck, and so pleased with themselves they’d stuck her here as their fucking prize, and even still their noises wouldn’t cease, she could hear them now. Go on, get on, be good, steer back to life. To life, steer toward the light! All manner of directions for you to take then, roads to travel and explore. Oh yes, once you exit the tunnel, there are routes to take, we have a bag of recommendations for you, they have recommendations, stick to the right. But you have to get moving, up and down the boulevard, take a turn, a turn, a pretty little thing, it won’t kill you. Oops you’re dead. That’s how they like to run things. There it is, it’s them. I wanted to say we, they wanted me to say we, want me to include myself in their little games. Ever on with the commands and prestige. How clueless were they, didn’t they know what a worm she was? That may be fine for them, parading about in dresses and knowledge, erecting cities on the fruits of their labors, but she could hardly be expected to keep pace. Could hardly be expected to move at all, she didn’t want to, such a chore she was slow from inexperience and limbs out of use, on the whole how she preferred her physical state. In some ways it caused her to be grateful for the small size of the room, her short pacing, less space to move about in turn encouraged less moving about. And it also removed much of the indecisiveness and stress over where to park her corpse as well. Certainly if she was to rot in one space till the end of time, she’d like it to be a nice one, the best of all possible, or rather available, choices, which was a simple matter in this minimal room. Of choices hers were as follows: On the floor situated right dead center of the room, the eastern corner, the southern corner, the western corner, the spacious northern corner, as well as anywhere in between along the perimeter, as well as just off center, and any remaining radial point. A formidable selection as it was and anything more or added dimension would only compound the troubles. More was not necessary nor desirable, something they’d never understood, always subjecting her to a plethora of options and decision and clutter and muck. Ha, no wonder she’d turned out the high-strung case she was. The frequency she ended up lost in swamps. And certainly, the amount of times she had informed them of this to no avail, they must have known, she couldn’t see how they’d remain ignorant in spite of, it must have been intentional. They were not allies, it must be remembered. She’d been right in her wariness, to desire differently. It was an attack, there was no hope, she was under attack. They wanted her just like them, another tossed up and instilled with life, beaten down and thrown out onto the street, flailing up and down those roads. So many, fix in the rails. Cramming head with all sorts, bobbing incessantly and body motioning in regiment to the clocks, the clocks, always glimpsing at the clocks and contorting into odd shapes. Confessing to their oppressive hands and scurrying down dingy corridors in penance. And once it commences there is no stopping it, the floodgates have opened, the time is for drowning, bow your head and swallow. Swallow all they feed you, the clocks have made their announcement, you must fit, shape up, cut your mane, cut your name, you’re a scallop. There’s a good listener, now you can come along, no more time to play, Scallop. You have your corridors to pace. Come along here, the clocks are staring, go forth down to the hall, yes, to the end. Go down to the end and when you get there there will be another one waiting for you, another clock watching. Don’t think about escape, they’re everywhere, the clocks line the walls spaced at regular intervals, just out of reach. They tick as you travel, as Scallop make its way down to the next end, path straight and narrow so no dawdling, tick tick tock tock, spurring on. On with marionette face. Poor Scallop barely resembles a pony yet has no time to lose, none to gain, conclude this segment and transition to the next corridor. It’s progress. That’s how you know you’re making headway, you reach the next corridor, no, Scallop reaches the next corridor, and the next and the next, ticking each previous off on the list. And the list grows. Scallop carries an extensive list, only possession allowed, detailing all its accomplishments in regards to striding down hallways. At every occasion as Scallop reaches the end of a passage, there is allowed a brief pause to mark down its latest triumph, the only respite allowed, that the clocks provide for. And how does Scallop mark its list? Possibly checkmarks or tallies or other suitable symbol? No, Scallop has been instructed to mark down in written alphabet, it is the mark of the civilized. The mark of achievement. But then how should and are the passages recorded on the list so as to be distinguishable? It’s a simple matter, the clocks professing efficiency and meticulousness, it’s a simple answer then, the halls are numbered, sizable black digit at the end or rather start of each new segment. This provides a sense of progression and the clocks arranged around this so as to make easy—No, no, there are no numbers, the corridors have not been and will not be labeled. Scallop has been left to provide its own sense of accomplishment, they only concern themselves that task is fulfilled, the list has been allowed but not provided. It is Scallop’s only possession. So the corridors are written out in full hand and Scallop takes the initiative of numbering the corridors itself, such as to write CORRIDOR NUMBER TWO-HUNDRED EIGHT, or CORRIDOR NUMBER TWO-HUNDRED NINE, and so on consecutively as the time comes for it to be marked down, when the brief pause is afforded. Yet there often is too short a time. Only a few seconds, it has gathered from the clocks three, are allowed for each stop before the alarm sounds and it is sent hurrying off again, only enough for Scallop to write down CORRIDOR with few letters more or less according to speed at that instance. How fair of them. Yes, Scallop’s list consists of the word CORRIDOR written down countless times, that is what provides the sense of progression, or would, if ever an occasion were allowed for Scallop to take rest and sum them all out. With featureless expressionless face Scallop soldiers on. And the corridors, what of their length. It seems that they are not all the same length. They are not identical, this much is known, each being an eggshell white, but of different shades and carrying differently designed clocks. Each is completely straight down its length until end at which point the subsequent is begins at a right angle port or starboard. But the time taken traversing them, Scallop sometimes notices as it does so, seems to vary from one to the next. Oh none of them are short by any means, but there is not allowed enough time to make sense of such using the clocks. A word on those, the clocks are invariably varying, each carrying at least minor difference from all those previous on the face or rim or hands. They are positioned on the walls just high enough to be out of comfortable viewing level. So if Scallop were to read one, not only would its head, Scallop is a pony, need to turn to the left and up but it would also need to halt its forward velocity as well. Which of course is forbidden, except at the aforementioned permitted instances. And the walls are narrow, but not enough so as to prevent all horizontal movement. This allows for variance in Scallop’s motion. Sometimes keeping on an imagined center line, other times so close to the left, or right, if such is possible, wall as to be brushing gently. Or other times not straight, but a minor zigzag in forward march to keep up general enthusiasm. Seen too many walls to maintain curiosity there, clocks aren’t worth the effort. Why the halls? It is not questioned. Why still the paper? Any old thing will do, Scallop knows not to complain, that nothing would come of it. In that regard it is taking after the clocks, not to expend futile effort. Scallop moves through the halls without complaint, at least none she voices. After so long and so many walls she’s lost her spirit, she questions nothing, it is the norm. Walking down one hall then the next and the next has become the norm and it is increasingly difficult for her to conceive of else, she’s been broken. The clocks tick on remorselessly. They’ve taken her beautiful mane and sheared it, her fur long lost its radiance. She’s lost her, she’ll lose her mind. A mindless drone, an automaton blindly pacing up and down their corridors. Stepping and stepping, tick tock, dim light, won’t stop, no end, they’ll never let her end. They’ll keep her walking for ever and ever and it will never end.
Rising tide is washing her away, scrap this. It’d gone awry, should have been expected with a tangent erected on faulty legs like hers. She’d correct for accuracy, her current stride was not comparable to corridors and the motion as well was not forward, seemingly to some direction, but obviously leading no destination. Back and forth. Eight paces to wall, reverse direction by hundred-eighty degree rotation, and repeat. It was a mistake also to call the clocks them. They couldn’t be reduced to that, were too encompassing to be restricted to clocks. Too many errors, always mucking it up, that was why they put her in the room. Ho! Even there they almost had her, caught in the habits. Nothing was to be owed to them by her, this room was no fault of hers. And even if she had been making errors, it could hardly be expected of her to succeed or even perform suitably when they were the ones putting her up to the illfit job. They had no business putting her up to anything. When she wanted nothing, all she wanted was nothing. To be left at nothing. She ceases her stride. A close to that morsel. Enough of the yarns, enough of the cats, too much rigidity. Back to her. That’s how she’ll get on. But not staring at the paint, maybe the floor. It bore the scuff marks of her hooves. Enough so that she felt no need to contribute further. She won’t become such a mollusk leaving a trail of slime. There must be some other way to occupy herself in this room. She was close to stillness but not quite, her front hooves shifting about and idly tracing designs on the floor. Nothing imaginative of course, no artful imitations or even recognizable patterns, simply scribbled lines. That was important, not that it was brought to attention, allowing no imaginative activity sufficient enough to provoke another flight of fancy. Best to be dead inside. That’s the plan. The feet may be halted but no gain there if the words are still let pouring out. It was a grave risk, so close to expiration only for the mouth to spout off and deliver revival. Unfortunately the brain has no lips to sew shut, tried that before. And even to do any sewing required movement restarted. You’d still have to chance any solace you might have held in your hoof. And she says You, but there is no You, those lines must be kept distinct. There is no one for her to talk to here, only a nasty habit, a learned dialect they left with her. For ease of communication they said. It only confused things, hardly worth that. She felt as though unraveling, her hide falling smoothly off as she comes apart. How did they expect her to get to the root of the matter like that? No need of such questions. Again it may be repeated she knew they didn’t want her to do so, wanted to keep her muddled and under their thumbs. That was why they told her these things, so she’d use it to their benefit. And none of it held any truth, well it might have been true, at one time or another, that couldn’t be excluded, but once she said it, it was not. They expected her to perform. Wouldn’t be ones to dirty their own hands, they preferring to drive her to it herself, to the brink and past, tear her own self to pieces. Wouldn’t they be in for a surprise then. It couldn’t work now, now that she’s wise to their scheme and won’t cooperate, there is no feasible method that she could see. No more pacing. She was seated again, for the moment and most part. It did suit her more. Being situated near the west wall was a preferable experience to recent events. She might die here in the spot, it’d be arbitrarily abrupt, what a laugh. Wouldn’t that show them a lesson. Her heart, lungs, the others, all of them. But teaching was their domain and she’d rather so leave it to them. Not cause too great a disturbance there. Perhaps then they’d lull and she could then slip off the coil without raising notice. Distant hope, don’t spit up. More reasonable to expect a steady or irregular but consistent decline, that much assuming she wasn’t on the rise. It would make matters that much worse, she cannot afford that. It must be held with confidence that the current inactivity is at least curbing such an increase in health. However the mind might be as formidable an opponent as exercise. Motionless as she was, her thought still prospered and was not giving indication of quelling in the near future. She was back to thinking about her book she’d never had and all the time that didn’t exist. There were no objects to interact with here but that wasn’t enough, that was entirely too much. Incredibly redundant to say she did not like it here. Yes, still too much clutter, theirs, their clutter and motion was the mark of this room. It held nothing of hers and it was not hers, nothing to go on there. It was a sink, couldn't go on in this room, she’d move onto another then. At other times, she was partial to other rooms. This was sort of a habit of hers, the occasional transition from one room to an adjacent. Not too often of course, these things were best in moderation. Most being similar on the whole anyhow. Carried out slow enough the transition could be performed almost imperceptibly. She liked this, brought a warm feeling to the withers, and had made a bit of a game out of it. Passing through doorways slow enough as to see no difference or for more points fully without notice. Not even lock the door behind.
So slow as said she opens the door and savors the process. Time passes, has passed, is passed, it does not matter, here she is in the next. The white room, bleach out all the stains. No, the light here was improved by all means, yet still not sufficient for that. No stains but room is merely a light shade of grade. Best that can be done, she won’t dwell and enters further. And whereas the previous was devoid of contents, this more so having lost all trace of texture or fixtures or liveliness. Simply gray. No need to rehearse the slogans. She stares and can feel the sterile oxidizing her eyes. Is this such refreshment needed, her molecules bubbling over, perhaps need not contact the floor. Free enough to retract root, body bubbly, dissipate to the breeze, she’s the mind ever expanding mind stellar. Ah, travels are growing excessive, for the weave, reel it in. Not so much, but still reach passed the spread. To the right. Look out the window. A calm yard with level sod must extend at least an acre until chain link fence and lazy gray clouds sheltering the sky, entirely silent and still. No inhabitants or foreign bodies, an expanse of ease. Yet the yard isn’t such still, a gentle draft persists, moving about the three interspersed trees, holding them alive. Gray overcast above shaded lawn, and the three small oaks. Adding appearance of life on the stretch of grass, minor rustling reaches across to all four corners until chain link fence. Small question in such a safe little world. Mesh fence and sturdy posts that enclose the perimeter, guarding, keeping out the riffraff, preserving the wind, locking in the elements, trapping in, confining. Ah, she was endeavoring it again. There is no window. All she had were her walls, the four walls they had stuffed her in. Setting her to do things, forcing her into rooms, the nerve, could feel it coming, next they’d be forcing her to happiness as well. And this room was a strain on the nerves, walls uniform gray enough to suck all soul from the sight. So soon, she’ll take another switch. It’ll be her next, it’ll be nicer, a more upstanding decor to the benefit of the atmosphere. And things. More things, more distractions to talk about. Things to touch. What furniture was appealing or suitable to the intent? Something decorative, an item far removed from the native earth, the thought was depressing her, she needed to proceed in a contrary direction to avoid dwelling. A lamp. Not that, what was it? Teapot? Wrong class entirely, something that shown light. Ugh, not when put like that, not even seeing in a different was enough there. The approach was flattening, no mind, this skin calls for color, quick.
Incandescent light with softer walls. She’d gone through the door into the next room, fitting enough speed all considered. Warmer for once. And it held noble objects, fancy but understated, no clutter where none necessary. Rug on the floor, she traces it’s intricate pattern with hoof and sight, spiraling scarlet lines. Maybe observe another, that’s not too much, something on the wall, the portrait simple still life, there’s the best kind, of another sparse room. Admirable intent, when this room begins to sicken there’s another right there to look at and take the mind away. Genius really, she wouldn’t even need to move for that, so long as previously positioned for a clear view but that was not such a large worry, this room being roughly the same size as the others. That was something, the rooms were generally of similar volume so that when width or length was expanded or decreased in one compared to previous, height adjusted as well in compensation. For instance, this room while being stretched lengthwise as to be rectangular also maintained a lower ceiling, oh not too much but enough to be mildly noticeable. And this was not a problem due to the painting being situated on the abridged far wall, centered both vertically and horizontally. As well as the rug on its respective surface. Who’d taken the time to exact that? Likely them, who else, if not her, so keen for precision, it was them who had prepared this room for her, and subsequently these thoughts, knowing their stimuli incessantly and rigorously. So ardent to box her up, like a trout, sell her at market. Damn it all, they’d known she’d choose this room, known she’d be pleased to sit and stare at canvas with minimal difficulty after tiring of the chestnut. Well then, no, she wouldn’t be doing that. The north wall could go to hell, she moved instead to the eastern side which held the only remaining furniture, a dark unobtrusive end table with plain design. It even contained a drawer in apology. She wonders what’s stocked in there. Curiosity in command, she gripped and carefully opened the—she carefully opens the drawer to look inside. A blank piece of stationery. Lines ready for sentiment. Pneumonia would approve. Not that fixture again, it’s been soiled. Keep attention on the present, matters at hand, that’s closer to stillness than letting the mind wander. Now the parchment in hoof, there’s things that can be done with it, activities to perform and intentions to accomplish. She might write down a list with it or perhaps multiple lists, space permitting. Could start with an inventory of the room, the few items in it that she’d already mentally catalogued, better to have that down solid on paper. Rug, painting, end table. Then onto generals. The things she knew, dredge them out the head and make it material. There was bound to be much. Despite all that had fallen out of reach, she held knowledge. She knew things. So then able to tally what she knew, because there were things she knew. She was a pony. But had she always, was that relevant? Better amend: She was a pony, at this time. She was in a room. That much has been covered, really, cross the heart and stick a needle in the eye. Ha. Could she go on with this? A little longer, it’ll pass, she’ll get through it. No collapse, every else may fail but not this. It’s the medicine she needs, no alternatives. The beetle would assist her, the beetle knew these things. No, we’re not going to do that. And she has no pencil. Drop the paper.
Another room then, different, better. How so? The question she’d endeavored to avoid. Entering yet another small fixed space, what significant different there? Once you’ve been witness to one, you’ve known all. When imagination depends on inspiration, when you’re a beggar. She only had what they provided her, the vile pennypinchers, being the sort of creature dependent on rooms and other such spaces for existence. Really, it’s true. What else would she have? To her knowledge there wasn’t anything further in way of things compatible with her interests. There couldn’t be, that was how things were, why things were how, decided at first word. Such was necessary, for her to never understand. Yet with clear sight it was apparent the slope of path was rising, that it might grow so steep for her to come tumbling down. Although it must be admitted she was not one to complain there. But again with it. Try for another room, smaller easier. Nothing forth. Distinct lack of location. Keep on, keep on she’ll put up something to sustain. Specifics aren’t so necessary when gifted an idea, she was choking on them. So starvation was not such a feasible meal plan. Felt so good when starting out, she won’t say she’s wrong there. Leave that for them, yes, them, they were always so keen to declare her wrong in her stances. Let them burn in hell for their differing desires. Fair accusation there but it’s not the same. Must admit feels herself withering. Is this the part where she drowns? Is this where it starts? Or has she always been drowning, constantly forcing her head above and gasping for air in effort to prolong the sinking. Seems reasonable enough. If going to sink, might as well keep the whole ordeal miserable, for consistency. But finally this motto must come under scrutiny as well. Is that advisable, that it be something to be endured. For what reason must better be excluded from the realm of possibility. Should she not have right to peace and daresay happiness, even marginal so long as in the positive quadrant? Any worthwhile train of thought allows that of this gift unrequested. It seemed so in a civilized society. Ah, too far in that direction, she didn’t mean to condone that, so misguided. Treading in wrong directions and head is falling off her shoulders. Before she sinks into further despair, salvage the argument. But which end to spare? This confusion another gracious gift from them, crammed with too much yet deprived simultaneously. Not the time for indecisiveness. Eternity in her eyes need not be such a negative prospect. Yes, she should be able to dig up pleasure and they have no business snatching it from her. Walk in her own steps at her own pace, scrounge up the attitude. Yet wasn’t it a futile operation? Assuming she had a worthwhile destination, they remained there at every junction to impede and erect an obstacle or another in her path. Why had they taken stand against her? She would not confess her birth was a crime. No, she was not guilty. Some headway, an allegation that was rejected, fed so full of their lies she’d finally vomited it all out. Them to blame for the mess, no lack of reasons there. Put her through so many burning hoops and then laugh at her corpse. Then bring her back to host the funeral. Yes, they needed her for that, for all their furtive mechanizations they needed her flesh to carry it out. But she did not need them, enough crying. She was stronger than that. Capable of walking on her own, supported by own hooves, that’s what she’d done all this time. Piling on her was their only line. So burn them right back, if they want to play they need an opponent, set out and roast them in their own pyre like a true competitor, tear out the damn throats. She’d show them where it hurts, stomping their flimsy barriers was not so difficult or tedious or substantial or imperative. Maybe she’d have a rest first. To quell the nausea, isn’t that important. None of this is going to bring about end but merely divert her attention anyway, isn’t that the heart of it, what she really wants. No matter how far she distances herself it won’t carry her anywhere, certainly not out of this room. To end, the premise must be sorted. She knows that, no way about, all was stalling and playing games, that’s what she’s set her routine around. But something else. No, now it’s close. The head has been bashed against so many walls it begins to get a feel for this, or the opposite. That’s what happens when you pursue logic. Perhaps some genuine improvement, it would be nice for once to make headway on whatever road still applies, but still trivial. Yet there is no further road. Whether or not there is headway for the making, genuine is preferable, for it’s own sake at least. Need to be trampling solid ground. Yes, she admits it, this is terrible. Stay to track, it’s them, say it’s them. But it’s been hidden so long, out of reach and out of sight at every turn, she can’t remember what it felt like. Something, say something to please them, make it stop, stop their attack, let her backpedal, what did they want, for her to confess none of it was real, that they were the victors? That the narratives were all impulsively imposed by herself, out of comfort or fear or some other timidness, designed to keep her own head out of existence, is that what they required? That even though she had her void, the black nothingness she was submerged in, not even, residing in the nothing with no vision or senses of any sort, that even despite it all she couldn’t stop, couldn’t figure out how to let it all go and dissolve, failure even there, no it was them, no it was her, she wouldn’t progress forward, wouldn’t let herself, oh she’s forward now. There she goes, beautiful world, the rooms and kids and clams and words of them all weaving up a bed of breath to float away. Round of applause, such a blower of smoke. But bring her down, they needn’t dwell in such negative light, to the soil, a pony is given a spine. There is no them, only her. Solid ground, so firm, it’s coming now, rushing up, going to hit running. Headfirst then, she’ll land on her feet. There is no horde of villains, no enemy organs or grand conspirator, or any with significant enough interest to thoroughly ravage her course. No dark passengers here, let’s keep at it, not even her wretched mother bears the true blame. If any caused this it was her to herself, and solution or cure sit readily at reach, simply waiting to soak up her despair. Nothing impedes, if skin is ill fitting, there’s more than one way to shed it. But still so theatrical to raise victims out of this. Somewhere in her rambling she already brought out the notion that existence can be enjoyed. If stopped lamenting at walls the duration. Yes, it was her own words. A pony can only bury their head so deep in the soil for so long. Or in the clouds. She needs to come out for air. Sweet air sharp down the throat. Now. Take a deep breath, she’s able, on solid sod, it’s her desire. Great hurt, it’s done. She’s breathing. No one but her. She doesn’t need them. No one. I don’t need her. Seize on. Exhale. It is I.
