Dissemination

Words speak volumes about our morals, the daring ventures that sleep with us in our time of worry. It appeals, doesn’t it? The creamy feel, the motherly nuzzles; it’s almost like somepony covered it with soft cement and filled it in, so that we may forever slumber and sink under the weight of creeping numbness. And yet, to know, we’ve known, that we were sleeping in our own troubles, that the cries of anguish that form your lullabies at night were your own, does it scare you, ever will it, child? The understanding of it is that it will always be hard, that the steel will always be there to catch you if you ever decide to whisper into its blackened abode, so that its light may never disappear from the eyes of the promised young. They hope, so it is there, and what is created from the other side births longing, so that the tears can continue forgoing, and the cycle continued, to whatever boundless revolution they are working towards.

It is a warm and cuddly thing to think about, isn’t it? A lost here lost here please don’t leave me spinning spiral, spinning a spiral to the end. The wax that is resulted from this process can be weaved into many soft patterns, such as a pretty dress, or a crumb— kiss of a mother to her foal as they drift into darkness. Simply, it is what one culminate culminate crumbling chooses to do with the profit, the extra residue that comes after the thing, that spreads to become the tasteful painting on the wall, the quietly trembling strokes of colour forming the basis of the triad ensemble is there gone is there gone masterpiece that we desire to mold, for it is the slowly dipping nectar, the syrup of loss and decay, that moshes into the pit during the dusk, that truly makes the composition beautiful, like a butterfly folding its crystalline wings over a melting skeleton. To be frank, it is a complex yet wholesome perception, an orb of stranded one-colour a spite a loss a dragon ascertainty, gathering and dispersing throughout the cataclysm of a floating realm.

So what way do we have left here? What road do you intend to warm and caress approaching nirvana, save those you have already screamed lampshaded on your stroll down these cold alleys? Your conscience tickles without relief, you know that you cannot go is that a light is that a without movement, for the dance you had created for yourself had already taken over, the trots echoing uniformly across the dusty studio and theatre. The audience it reaches, however is a solemn one, ears upturned to any screech of vibration, orbs ready to slice into fear, as a sharp knife cuts into cheese, and lay huddled in a corner, shivering, wishing for a parent to bring them to security. So with these strings, it’s already stretching the tune, the violins and pianos clashing against the wasting away no time percussion and blending into an unearthly symphony of grinding noises and debris, only to ask a singular why? What has been gained now, that the spirits have been run and paved over, a winding wall of unwavering backbone, or perhaps simply having less left to value than most. I think it is admirable, then, that they still carry with them the burden of conformity, still hammer down a set of morals to routinely adhere to, with all but the point of helping ponies, or contributing to society, as they find themselves flung out, colliding onto the sand like the breeze drifts over the ocean. There, clouds waning heavily as one wakes, inhaling the feeling of as sinking statue, they find themselves without whereabouts, no place to go, nor sleep. But maybe it is for the best. When all is said, the labours that the government makes are never easy, for it requires the sweat of a deference reverence trade granite-born drone, and the sympathy of a languid sculptor, surrounded in a room with his ugliest carvings.