Chapters And I know I can't keep it
Never know. The pink pony will never know. And the best never happened, off the road in the gutter. She never got here. On her back in the filth, always the filth, she chose it and nothing would choose her. In the curb, the gutter from which she moans. Too deep for those passing too care. She moves her head, the others walk by with crooked legs. Along the road, they continue but it is known they aren’t much better. Nothing better at all. The pink pony ends all the more. I’ll never know, she says, it went wrong, all goes to hell. We’ll go to hell. In the end there is nothing. In the end nothing and never ever. She clutches refuse to her and it is nothing. Tale as old as thyme.
They left the sky vacant, they left themselves. Have a thought. Some words will be here with the pony. So she does not move. Went too far right and now there’s nothing left. It’s simple, we kill every one. She has no solutions. No excuse for a living being. In the mud and she never was. Someone has to say Rainbow Dash isn't real. Then craving a mouthful of dirt. Tell her who she is. I’ll tell you who you are. She turns on her stomach, her leg has been gnawed. Better taste the pain there with coarse dirt. The confession, it’s all a space of waste. You will never know how it feels to light up the sky. The sun long burnt out. Are you a lady? The pink pony will never know. It was her choice, who can blame her? She doesn't look up any more. It’s just that no one thinks about you and your stupid song. The other things pass by and her face remains in the dirt. She swallows an ant. Who can blame her? Some four legged things walk by. If you don’t, I will. They think they’re making a statement. The road thinks it means something. Sometimes the pink pony thinks the gravel bears ill will. Sometimes that it can speak. Of these only the former is accurate, not that way. Most of her thoughts are not accurate. The pink pony is full of thoughts and little of them are accurate. To hell with them. No deliberation there all drowns anyway what a bitch.
Now a memory, she once had those. In the home all alone, little strange there. Always alone in the rain. Now or then she was under a roof in the dark home, staring at windows was amusing. Touching things is not advised. Try never to touch things, the pink pony knows she was adequate there. She didn’t touch the mess, only looked from the window. But it came to her, always was. There are no windows in the gutter, she can see them and they can see her. No windows into the soul, nothing to see anyhow. Don’t ask, don’t tell, go to hell. Additional hell for good measure. Perhaps she’ll eat another ant. Never learned to count, no fingers either. Crooked hooves for crooked legs next is scoliosis.
Back to her back then, dirt is back and she’s covered in it. That went wrong too. Are you a lady? No, they can’t tell and won’t. Atmosphere's too gray for clouds or niceties. Sometimes something with two legs walks past, but it’s deader than the cattle. Another for the scrapbook. Have to say you’re sorry, you will be sorry. They will make her sorry. There are occasions where this matters. The taste of candy has been long chased off in this location. Still in the dirt, she moves her head in the grime and still those on the road persist. Some come and some go. She goes nowhere. There is no memory of the others and no need. Intermission: Practicing Pat hides inside a broken TV in my back garden. When no one is around he comes out and taps on my window. He takes me for walks along the seafront. Together we vacuum up the sand and clean the coast. He is practicing vacuuming so he can go back to his real house. His mommy sent him away from home because he wasn't very good at it. I think he is really improving his technique. In the morning he goes back to his TV and waits. I think about him all day long until night arrives. He says I can’t let my daddy ever throw away the TV or he’ll throw me in the sea. Sometimes I dream he’s pushing my head under the water and won’t let me breathe. One night my daddy came home from work angry. He made a fire in the back garden and threw the TV on. I could hear Pat screaming as it burned. The next morning the TV was all black. Practicing Pat doesn’t talk to me anymore. I don’t think he’s very happy with the situation.
The pink pony with the stupid cutie mark isn’t either, that doesn’t matter. Twenty years of sinking. Born to be dead. Ponies are born so they may die. Ponies are dead so they may die. She can’t laugh because her orifice is filled with dirt. What was expected. Not the one for fucking, maybe. The typical faults. Give them a voice and they try to say things. Not even a poke in the eye. The proper depth is six feet and she’s messed that as well.
They see her and are not fit for consumption. Don’t throw up. The pink pony does, too late, throws up mud and heart. Less than fractions left there but no mind, they’re all dead to begin with. Touching bile she recounts the facts of life. On her back in nothing collecting dust. Home is where the heart is. Didn’t we already do that one. No soul to speak of, do away with dumb ideas. There are no solutions and her legs are broken. Whimpers are a statement. She was not so sweet. Then a carcass paws at dirt. Wasn’t much. And they’ll go to hell on misplaced intentions. Even less. All her thoughts are pretty much the fucking same. And maybe she hates all them or maybe just you. In the dirt the pink pony knows better than the rest. It’s profound. Less than not. Crawl in dirt look empty whimpers. Probably go wander off or something whatever
She's not a wishing well. Contrary to expectations. But no one can be sure. And there is little movement to be observed from her, this does not help the situation. Rarity does not enjoy to be thought a wishing well but does not help the situation. Not from her chair. Doesn't like that either, but does not move form it. She does not recall how the chair looks. It is not in her view, her view consists of the surroundings before her, largely the wall and it's adornments. Various pictures of other nothings. It is painted the color lavender and that is probably significant. It is a recurring observation. And she enjoys her wall, moreso than her chair. But then Rarity has never been a pony inclined toward chairs. It is a puzzle that she remains affixed to hers. Not really. Now that consideration is given, it is not a chair. It is her younger sister. Rarity is sitting on her younger sister Sweetie Belle but no one can be sure.
It's a good thing but that's hardly true
There goes our Fluttershy. Another one through the hills, among the soot. She walks all on her own. With her own legs. They're stolen. If you ask she'll say they're hers. Little point asking then. She walks slowly after a long night. Through the empty space. Somehow a reason why. No point, it'll be stolen too. If the time is taken to speak it out. If it remains, or sunk to the bottom with the rest of her muck. If there is a flood she will sink to the bottom. The best has long since drowned. With proper instruction Fluttershy would likely be capable of making a boat. Maybe make a bin or other small container for her lice. That is what she will do if not walking. But there is no flood at this occasion. They don't love her anyhow. It will be a lost cause. Any with eyes could have known, not her.
It is past night but no dawn. She remains at motion. If one was to assess her pace she imagines the verdict would be a casual amble. It is not known how much longer this will continue. Little point asking her. She will say forever but there is no forever for her. Her hooves are another thing to blame. They stir up dirt and this irritates her corneas. Ever adding to the poor health and wilting guts. Fluttershy thought to leave those at home but she rarely follows through. She is known to make matters awful. Two full lungs made of matter and hot air. The dust irritates those as well. It is a reminder of her animal friends, the creatures at her house that are not lice. She has a rabbit which provides good vibes. Thanks a lot. But the mare is currently not at home and they are not close. Another occasion for her to stumble. Dawn sees little point in arriving. Fluttershy sees little. If light shines bright it will further irritate her eyes. The light never shines and her eyes are irritated. If you ask she'll give a number of reasons. Through the hills a lone pony ambles, who knows what for. Fucking beautiful.
Not for your consideration
She was predisposed toward spitting up. That was one quality that had always stuck with her through the weather. And she was flesh, too much flesh. Excess never desirable, least of all on her. Her coat, what color this time? Settle on pink. Pinkie Pie on her spiral, bad habits of old making their reappearance, consequence as a form of vengeance. And her coat, that was still intact on the whole, pink as ever. Otherwise she would just look double a disappointment. Not to say she wasn’t at any rate. Certainly the long list of things she wasn’t, ever diligently Pinkie kept, did not include disappointment. To her family, friends, teachers, employers, onlookers. Never been able to keep up with the else, in the areas of significance. Never had the divine spark that spurred their anatomies. Instead what was she left with, the glib and hollow, rambling on ever spouting the same ever. Typical nonsense and noises she could barely contain, it almost induced laughter. Twice as much to say about anything, not a word to be spared, to no sum, no real purpose among it and of no victory, hers worth half of theirs, irritating herself just as often. Some element of laughter, that was the first to go. In these moments of clarity she knows she should have gone with it. She should have done a lot of things. Probably not eaten so much dirt. Not much done there, preferences never her own, and nothing else a life of its own. It’s what a pony has a taste for. Pinkie is veritable desolation. Not a speck of life to be spawned off of her. Odor of her hooves is distasteful, every touch urges decline. So not so different from any other being. But still poor specimen, at least of that much, her contents ephemeral and obscure. No comparisons are suitable. She reminds herself of nothing and has nothing to show herself. So the better may worsen and the reverse, and she may be equal in her zero. Her flaws are not near equal and she is weighed down by her own awfulness. Sinking and lying in her mess unlit by black tones. It isn’t known. In the light, there is none, hide does not look so bright. Difficult to discern the spoils of her effort, total lack of, she closes her eyes and imagines there is nothing, opens her eyes and imagines there is nothing. Put out her eyes and would be yet less difference. Sight never desirable, least of all on her. The point is wasted on her. Notice how her jaw opens then shuts. Just as warned, she has spit up.
Twilight is dead. She is not here. Nor herself. Her feet hurt just like the soul. Waste of words. No soul, none desired. She stares out the window. Dreary charcoal sky and stretched shadows. No soul seen. She does prefer her solitude. Isn’t she gifted such sane mind.
No movement, then shivering form. Stare on. It stares. No love, no compassion. She in the corner. She smiles. In the dark where at ease. Light not such a matter. But there is no light. That explains the cliches. She opens her mouth. Worthless, it would be a mistake. No she is not going to contribute. The mouth is shut. No words here. No filth. It is all filth. The muck.
From corner to out view extends. She sees on. For now still Twilight sees on. From sitting somehow. Staring to out, window reaching floor. Natural to reach for ground. Momentum trends down. Sinking all. Twilight sinking all. Self first of all. Till dead. All being good as other. Meaning not in the least.
Her view. Barren trees and autumn chills, positioned below her vantage. Her vantage is dirt. Mild toned dirt spread in mounds and knoll. Ending at tree line. Clouds bear down, at her, scowls eternal. Isn’t she gifted such contempt. There is no eternity. It passes, gloom grows. She left lingering.
In the twilight. She is Twilight. So tells herself. In the twilight Twilight tells herself, last I checked I was Twilight. More or less. As good as other. None good, other less. Last checked Twilight is a little less.
