Chapters Poems should not talk about bad things
A poem like that, would be to many ponies, fitting
I have broken the biggest rule in our society
From our birth we have learned to be "normal" and assimilate
To the rest, my pity goes out to them
Before I'm lopped off and burned in the fire
I want to talk about the bad things yes I do
Do not be blinded by the candy-coated lies
In the end nothing really matters
Nature is our greatest friend
For some, the darkness of our world is too much
-Author unknown. Apparently a cynic of Equestria's supposedly utopian society.
They say that sons bury their fathers in peace
War is in our nature
We will fight until the world is stained red
The soldier fights on and on
There is only one battle nopony can win
Darkness will take you soon and fast
-Grim
Woe be upon thou who open this book
Mine own greed hath caused me to fall
Fly up to Paradise, the land of eternal salvation
Choice, and your choices alone shall carve out your fate
Quickly, turn back now, for thou it is not yet too late
The ever fleeting and ongoing flow
Time is an abstract concept, faceless and indifferent
Everyone has a watch, not knowing when it will expire
Yes it's true, that nothing lasts forever and we shall fall
But isn't that the point, for time will always outlast all
A great white expanse filled with a bright light
A world you can create and mold how you so choose
Picture an antique door in the great white expanse
It's a great mystery that irks all civilized and educated minds
Perhaps a few have seen what lies on the other side
There are many things that we shall never fully understand
Is it possible that this search makes us all mad and blind?
The Answer (story) [Sad][Dark]
Pain, agony, suffering, and loneliness.
These are the things that fill my life. A never ending cycle of monotonous events day in and day out. I wake up, go to work, then go to bed. This repeats for five days at a time before the weekend arrives. Said weekend isn’t much different. Wake up, attempt to socialize with other ponies, fail at that, mope about, do nothing, and back to bed.
Many times I have wondered what the point of getting out of bed was, since all that greeted me each day was more of the same. I go to work every single day, acting cheerful and smiling all the while, performing a show for the customers and my co-workers. I appear happy when I’m not, and it eats away at me. My head swirls inside contradictions and paradoxes whilst I cry when I smile.
By now, everypony who is reading this is probably yelling at me.
“Get over it, work is boring.”
“Go do something instead of moping and sitting around doing nothing.”
“Change won’t happen on it’s own.”
“Stop being such a crybaby, suck it up.”
To them, I say, “You try being depressed. Then you’d know it isn’t that simple.”
Clinical depression. I will not lie, when I learned that this was a diagnosable ailment, I about laughed my flank off. That was before though, now I can see how and why. It cripples and paralyzes all in its grasp.
I no longer find joy in things I once did, so I stopped doing them. I can barely sleep, as my mind is always active, never ceasing its blasted functions. I never feel happy, only sad and lonely. Even the company of my friends and family do nothing to help me. All I can do is put on a fake smile and say everything is alright, even if it’s not.
Where I once saw good and hope, I only see countless imperfections, numerous mistakes I have made, and how it could all go bad or wrong.
I fear my family and friends suspect that something is amiss. I have become a fair bit more secluded than my usual self, and I think my parents have heard me crying hysterically more than once late at night. The last thing I want is for them to drag me to a doctor and force-feed me happy pills. Living a life through false happiness sounds like a hell in of itself, in addition to having ponies constantly fawning over me. To make sure I was happy, that I felt like I was worth something, that I mattered, and to make sure I was taking my medication.
Fuck that shit.
I already know I’m a worthless mare who wouldn’t be missed. They could easily find somepony else to replace my spot in the store. I don’t matter. All my existence is, is a name, a number, a face, and a birth certificate.
Think about it, the planet we live on is huge. On top of that, our planet spins in a great expanse so vast we cannot comprehend it. Ponies and other creatures are born and die every single damn day. Who would notice or care if another one died today? Honestly in the grand scheme of things, we are all irevelant insignificant life-forms who live and die for no purpose that we can make out, other than for our own pleasure or survival.
What’s the point of this?
This question has kept me awake pondering for more nights than I care to count. If all we do is live for our own pleasure, why do we exist? At the same time, if we no longer find happiness or pleasure in anything, what’s the point of living?
I feel cold, empty inside. I once cared about others, about myself, about living. Now, I can’t even justify getting out of bed to myself anymore. Everything in life is so trivial and meaningless if we’re going to die later down the road anyway.
At first, I was frightened by this lack of feeling. I grew desperate, vainly trying to enjoy things I once did, trying to seduce stallions to feel the warmth of another, and finally I drove myself over the edge. I wanted to feel something, anything. I saw a knife upon the kitchen counter, and you can guess where that led.
I felt pain, but it was something to remind me that I was still here. Eventually, it stopped hurting so much and actually began to feel good. I began enjoying the sensation of agony in my flesh as it turned into pure joy. Pain became my vice, my last remaining source of pleasure left to me in this world. How wet I would get and how hard I came as I masturbated, feeling the searing pleasure of metal slicing through my fur and skin with the sight of my own blood driving me wild.
The first few cuts were easy enough to dismiss to those around me. After my need became greater, so did my cuts. They grew deeper and longer, and were becoming harder to hide. The explanation of falling into a briar bush would no longer work, and my hoodie could only cover so much. I started lying.
Short of telling those around me I was getting mugged or beaten on a regular basis, I just said I was having several unfortunate accidents with sharp objects. Falling on scissors, dropping knives while carrying them, snipping myself with shears at work, and the like.
…
Yeah, I don’t blame them for not believing me. My explanations were more shoddy than a house of cards. Needless to say, drastic measures were taken. All sharp objects around the house, and my place of work, were kept away and out of my reach. Then the forced doctor visits started. One to heal my body, and a shrink to listen to my hormone and depression driven sob stories.
To this day I still feel depressed. I never take any pills they give me, and I am now a master of finding them in my food. They say I’m mentally unstable, a bomb waiting to go off. Maybe they’re right, maybe not.
So now I sit, sitting on my bed whilst writing this. I gaze at the one knife I managed to sneak out and keep hidden this whole time. It gleans malevolently with a few thin trails of crimson. This and my wet sheets are signs of my pleasure that I befit upon myself a few minutes ago.
I grab the knife and stare into the polished and reflective metal. I see my mirror image staring back blankly, through the lines of red. Thoughts enter my mind, sick, evil, unhealthy thoughts. I’m depressed, my life has no meaning, why should I live? It would be so easy to take my own life. One slash across the neck and it would be over in a couple of minutes.
I sit, I stare, I think. I see no reason not to do it, but I hesitate regardless. I ask myself; Is this the answer? Will this solve my problems? Is this the answer I’ve been seeking?
To be completely honest, I have no idea...
The flourish of trumpets assail the air as the gates open to the large town. Citizens gather along the main road to watch the parade. As the paraders pass through the gates, the cheering turns to quiet murmuring, as they walk solemnly past without distracting their gaze.
What greeted the eyes of the citizens shocked and scared them. It was nothing they expected it to be. No heads were held high, no victorious cheers or shouts were heard, only the quiet shuffling of hooves down the road.
The polished gold armor no longer challenged the sun with its sheen and brightness. Now, it was faded and worn, tarnished by filth and grit and mud, along with the unmistakable stain of crimson known as blood. Beaten and shaken, the soldiers trot down the road without coordination or purpose. Their heads are bowed as they constantly stared down and ahead.
Much fewer than who had left had returned, and many ponies began scanning the large mob, praying to Celestia that their family member or friend was not among those who had died. Many were wounded, but all of them bore scars. Maybe not physically, but they carried them regardless.
Some ponies approached the soldiers and inquired of their friends or loved ones. Most of these encounters resulted in the soldiers wordlessly looking away. How could they tell them that their sons or daughters were killed or horribly mauled?
Some of the citizens begun to muse amongst themselves. Claiming that this campaign was doomed from the start. Stating that it was a waste of their tax money, a waste of life, a waste of time.
More than a few soldiers became enraged after hearing these ramblings. Storming up to citizens angrily, screaming into their faces. Screaming that without them, the town would be an undefended, lawless hell-hole. They were enraged not because they supposedly wasted money or time, but because the citizens believed it was a lost cause. That their friends and comrades had died in vain, had died for nothing.
The soldiers vehemently denied this. Every life lost did not die in vain, every life had contributed, every life had helped to fight against the griffon army.
So they said, even though they had been defeated in their last battle. The griffon oppressors were still at large, their attack having failed. Forced to retreat, being driven from the land that was rightfully theirs. The hollow and broken shell of an army’s former glory and strength.
I’m a simple pony, there is little that I want
I’m lonely and I acknowledge this fact
Wishing for companionship on a more intimate level
I scoff at myself and my own longing and thoughts
I desire to love and be loved by another on one hand
I think of having a lover, and my emotions well up
Alone I sit now, feeling truly lonely for the first time
Members of the female gender frighten me so
I found one, who I think matches my personality
Oh happy joy, I dared to ask her to a date
The day after, she approached me, and elated I still was
Thoughts of failure and ineptitude swirled in my mind
So now here I sit once more, alone and wanting
In time I will try again, but why do I act this way?
-L.S.
Run little ones, run little ones, run away
Here you will be happy, and here you will play
Run little ones, run little ones, run away
In this world you will conquer your fear
Hurry little ones, hurry little ones, hurry here
The place you travel to is filled with countless wonders
Run little ones, run little ones, run away
Here you are happy, and here is where you play
