Pace of Only

He stood proudly at his little doorway, in a manner resembling possibly an injured bird, though it is not sure how this analogy is reached.

It was a futile exertion, this being potentially the one truth that may approach understanding, and it happened to be, as all other conceptions are, offensive.

A squalid room burdened only with a chair and a chimney, door unremarkable and easily forgotten. The space seemed too confined, yet not enough. Never enough, continue.

Twelve paces to, twelve paces from. Twelve paces to, twelve paces from.

Half too many,

She had a certain mission in her mind, the purpose of which she was uncertain on. But this did not phase the mare, for she knew that certain things must be done in certain places for certain reasons, and this undoubtedly fell within that scope. So she carried on without a lingering need for self reflection, snugly assured of routine.

Nevertheless, pacing back and forth among the room was a chore, one she’d been bored of for an unknown period. Time was only one of many uncertainties. It seemed to her, if perception was to be relied on, which she felt must, for what else was there to grasp, that she had spent some eternities in this pattern of motion. It was a wonder she hadn’t traced a severer rut in the wood. Which led her in further speculations.

If time was no certainty, she only had further questions of reality, in her search for a reference point. Had she exhausted more than a lifetime here? Then what had become of her, was she not among the living, as is typically understood? Then had she been assigned her task by some greater power, or chosen it for herself? She did not know if there had been a time before this, if she had ever been anything outside this pattern. It’s execution dominated her thought. But she must be something greater than it in order to reflect on it as she did now. Fair to say that was a sign of intelligent consciousness, if anything could be said on that matter.

She couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if she wore her hooves down to nubs. What’d she do then? Too difficult to drag herself, the prime means of locomotion would be down to crawling or rolling. Might like a nice tumble, give her good view of the world then, always something to be said for a new perspective.

Something about her surroundings seemed familiar, but she could not recognize any one thing. How had she gotten on for this long without observing the environment? Didn’t know.

Too blinded by feelings to see the dawning agony.

Spider.

Spider!

Fuck, where was her spider?! The damn thing was tardy and that made her very cross. It knew better than to agitate the superiors.

Nothing to be done different.

She couldn’t help but go forward.

She turned her head as the door swung open, but remained pacing.

Ma’am, it’s an entirely trivial spider. Too trivial to be labeled trivial!

Somesuch

selfsame

Her mind decays and she gets blinded by routine. Misses her opportunity fretting over the spider, and the man leaves

The man interrupts her

Distracting! Fuck off, I need the spider.

There used to be a chair there, it seemed to her. If she squinted her eyes, she could almost picture it. A nice mahogany finish and a deceptively leather seat. Deceptive, like all things in the end. Like this awful world that had told her such promises only to spit in her face. Mother gone, dad dead, sister a slut, and her leg numbing again.

“What a bitch,” Rarity said with a giggle, then resumed pacing. Nothing other to be done.  A hodgepodge beetle was lurking about and she’d really like to stomp its legs. An act worthy of making one swell with pride.

What can you say for yourself?

That’s the problem, there’s nothing I won’t say.

A foul sort your kind is.

She shrugged, ”Cut with the cloth you have.”