Dissemination

I start, as always on rivers born rivers born the wasteland and foundation of pony history, that which foretold the trust of surrogate mothers to their offspring, of the entire kind to their splintered selves. It is speaking, of, of course, the war, the sand that is splattered red from foolish mongrels, of concealment and misunderstanding sprouted from the trance of childish immaturity. That which to never be wrong, never be corrected; is it really such an undesirable thing to wish for? Of the traits that we display; how many do we truly breathe? How much have we coughed out, vomited out as flam and gulped back without hesitation, feeling the smell of burning as it returns to our lungs and throat? It really is too hard, too hard, and the bricks we pretend to slam and cement at its lonely base are truly too fragile, breaking at a moment’s stare. I know this, for I have been selfish too, and simply desiring something, lusting for it, gets nopony anywhere. A piece of sentience in vertex there’s no more comes up from time to time, but is too simply a part of the unbroken cycle of denial that breaks us as we did mortar. No, clearly, it shall not do. There’s too much in the way, of the murdering and the shuddering stares, to ever bring good to anypony, and that is the way I shall leave it, for that it is the way it must forever be billowed, the glare receding slowly from our hooves.

Yet, still, there is another way. I was shown another way, or perhaps I knew it all along, and followed it as it crawled along an unsettling stream, reaching the body that all veins should go. It pulses gently, almost unnoticeably, as the sea should always do, but it is not only the large reserve of salt and water that it always is, but also of rust, metallic tang scratching at your ears and veins, bringing with an almost unrecorded, otherworldly sensation of warmth to your body. For it is warmth, and nothing else, that is no more no more born of hurt, the kind that comes not quick stab of a stray knife, but a slow, grating record that swims to your head and dematerializes your brain, so that it can find better use in some distant junkyard far from the arrogance of your rage. It has just been that, never, always, and to argue against it would be to write it on a book, poetical structures fixated to the highest pinnacles of shining crafts but falling short to the brutal nit and grit that makes up a farmpony’s life. why why  why   why    why

So where it stands in the grand scale of things, it does, is at the bottom. To climb their way up and out is unthinkable, for there is a balance, and to keep to its scales is the most prominent feature of all. The judge, as it has always been, is impartial, and sullenly bring down the arm of constrict, of bareness, of tearing things down to their bare bones, is a way of singing praises to its long cause. For we are all part of it, as we are all gears and the cogs of the wheels of the machines that are the gears, and to deny the hearth any longer of its spiritual fires reeks of pretended indifference and manure. It is’ the way it has always been, but must, if it intends to keep alive in the blood and boiling. Imagine now, perhaps, how a pony mans the ship in a storm, his face as resolute as a stone statue, dodging between the protruding rocks and torrential screams.