Dissemination

by Aponypocalypse

Rating: everyone
Tags: Random, Slice of Life
Length: 3487

Twilight attempts to lose cohesion with the world.

Twilight attempts to lose cohesion with the world.

An exercise in pretentious upholstery.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-02-17 20:30:06 UTC

Hones

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.

Loyal

Such a strange thing to think about, isn’t it?  The pinpoint and gargantuan formations of cumulus, tinged a silvery-orange from the rays of a setting sun, suspended under the sky of black and blue, bringing the apocalypse with every don’t speak to me ventilation. It seems to be quiet, patient, standing and drawing where others dare not, to face waters rippling over their faces, and subtly faded and forgotten, until they too are a fresh puddle of an untended mountain path. Because that’s the way life should be lived, gone and misrepresented, to the bleakly shimmering gold of discovery, as they reap and fly to the nearest dissection, the hoard of temple ruins overgrown by the loneliness and startling moss. I wonder, of course, how many times they have been spoken of, saying where is the watch the mournings of its selfless gaze, and carries the noble sack that it prides itself on. In a way, this is uncouth, yet elder than all, for it takes a weathered soul so lacking in education that may find themselves trapped beneath a collapsing gate. It is an act of indecency, yet strong-willed, that they choose to remain there, watching the sunrises pass and go, then one day to just wisp away, leaving with it only the slightest scent of burning. It leaves flames, so subtle, so unabstained, that you might find them anywhere, in the vase, under the rug, all you had to is ask. Such that is born from the green light, the headstrong detachment that is but the natural pattern, is so unnatural, so strange, that nightmares have been born of it, the soothing pulses of meadows clenched between the iron teeth of some great beast, a metallic being that they had been chasing run away run away that entire season until the autumn leaves fell and they crumbled, pinballing into an abandoned factory. Looking around, all they see are machines, tending and destroy the works of its muted people, a collection of rust and vacancy crank out of their systems and they deliver themselves to a higher age. Where might the higher age be? One may ask, but the answer is too simple, effortless, like pegasi giving up feathers through the blasting wind. It has always, and will continue to be, the sundering beacon in the sky, the glaring that makes us blind to so much, and yet to so little. Indeed, when they stand at the middle of the hail, seeing the enchantment protecting and dancing around them all this time, there is a breakdown, and they finally bring enlightenment to the marbles they have left to play around, and the pitiful coins that they may still enjoy its twinkle.

The wooden cupboards close slowly, and with a thundering creak.

And so I think that’s the trend without doubt I piece; that has ensued with us for the many millennia to come. After all, without strife, what would there be but efficacy?

Kindn

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.

Gener

A diamond in the rough, such a foolish yet convenient term. It would mean, to bathe in the riches of

splendor, yet to never really speak as if it’s gone you speak as if it’s know. Things are hidden all the time, all one has to do is cover it with curtains, and wave a magic wand around. In the most basic, what I am saying is that there has never been, whenever one adjusts their telescope and changes their view of space, they see the same nebulas and crackling stars, like an empty blue bowl with no bottom bottoms up take no stand or one that has already been consumed in the spiraling inconvenience of oblivion. Masochistic they scream, metaphors antenna ringed around, all tossed in there, the wardrobe that we never knew sleeping to us lie at you existed, until we looked down once on a childish impulse as if it’s nice breathing sand and saw the trapdoor glaring enchanters enchantress back at us.

So seam, it seems. And there’s a breaking in them both, snap in the long knotted length that follows the bell that follows the chiming chandeliers salute off into some unknown place. It was a simple weakening at first, then the fibers loosed loosing losing tailing auspicious, allowing for a tear of grating parchment, scattered, pieceless, into the chastising pool of reminiscence. Why does it then, wailing there’s a foal wailing float back up to the breakthrough, like a leaf forsaken it it’s amber collapse. How many lives have we given up asking I’m asking just to polish our own unexhausting greed, and to tower over the alit doorway, kneeling over to clean and kiss the bloody shards strewn all over wozzing willing krazenite  the pitch-black floor.

And so a speaker is, it might be, required. Someone to talk to them, to wave them in a chanting of you naughty filly you naughty naughty banners and flags. For the spirit, the flame ignited and burn dimly until Armageddon, shall guide our ships on an unturnable path, to swither, until only lanterns remain, alighting the abyssal shoreline with tiny dots; bright and cluttered, and slowly fading. A bleak outlook, it is, so harsh and pretentious, but a necessary one, if we want to realign the stage cosine a coil and open the glares to let the pinknives walk through, throbbing chastity ascent into our brains the hurt of drumming knocks, but terrified to peel the irises off as well, as they reflect back what they really are, and all they had been chasing in their hairy, cruel, lifetimes.  A swing must be made, I think, in the metronomes they play, the melodic symphonies senator crater punctuated by the sharp ticks, as they find their jewels once more, and swim in the subterranean ripple of their most about loving gaze.

Laugh

Hahahee, to chortle is one of the most joyous raise it down raise it dow pleasures in lie, apart from setting up the cliffs remain as steel as they remain as paint as they remain as the storyline topple harder the kingdom won’t crash on its own and stage instructions for it to follow, Jerusalem Jerusalem all hail the summer overlord and making sure it stays reliant, so that and without there, it’s safe and without her it’s the set-up is perfect and ready staking ready staking rea for it to be thrown into entropy.

A Columbus built jungle stand torso elting, war dances wielding, so that we may be one once a upon the marble and cheese of a past generation bottled up praise contained anger so sudden that one’s heart would latent jump , and that pending approval please wait at standby  the swords would ring with the metallic hull canarian voices singing elegies it posseses, but a leap constant obstinate forwards by the stallion shakes wedging into the rocks and the sweat flies away.

So prudent, tambourine a silent tambourine crawls and then jumps jingling, attack wage war blood as it was for so many years I love it especially mommy please don’t take the toy away from and so many eternities. case and point don’t deny the defendant The weights we plummet wasting away wasting away down, are but wall dripping it’s poiso cold ice to an deterred unexperienced mind.   And so we leave messiah the plastic we have made is beautiful but now it’s all forever and ever and ever and ever until the universe grows void and the stars start to lose changing chasing course their minds. For it is all ambers welding into a bow a dove that we are sickening sickening I don’t care and what we bec generate, gestate ome is decided only costly, its costly by the warming blanket surrounding of fate, and then we lose our planets, and the way it goes and way it straights and the way it stretches the way it presses way it says  and then we lose ourselves.

Is?

Jerusalem Jerusalem all hail the summer overlord please please find me where is the watch soulless mentors I love it especially mommy please don’t take the toy away from chandeliers salute costly, its costly sickening sickening I don’t care wailing there’s a foal wailing chastity ascent don’t speak to me loosing losing tailing auspicious deference reverence trade

Enchanters enchantress cliiffs remain as steel as they remain as paint as they remain as staking ready staking rea culminate culminate crumbling in vertex there’s no more pandemonium cling bottoms up take no stand cosine a coil run away run away no more no more lost here please don’t leave me as if it’s nice breathing sand

Asking I’m asking bottoms up take no stand senseless tears antenna ringed around that a light is that a senator crater raise it down raise it dow speak as if it’s gone you speak as if it’s and please please don’t leave me I promise you you won’t be sad just please please help most about ambers welding into a bow a dove generate gestate screamed constant obstinate without doubt I piece a spite a loss a dragon ascertainty wasting away no time that a light is that a tambourine a silent tambourine crawls and then jumps without doubt I piece and without there, it’s safe and without her it’s latent

No more no more bottled up praise contained anger deterred speak as if it’s gone you speak as if it’s wall dripping it’s poiso changing chasing messiah the plastic we have made is beautiful but now it’s all wasting away wasting away attack wage war blood and the way it goes and way it straights and the way it stretches the way it presses way it says sleeping to us lie at you wedging into the rocks triad ensemble is there gone is there gone colonial whirlwind rivers born rivers born crumb—

You naughty filly you naughty naughty case and point don’t deny the defendant jungle stand torso elting, war dances wielding strumming blare so that we may be one once a canarian voices singing elegies wozzing willing krazenite pending approval please wait at standby topple harder the kingdom won’t crash on its own why why  why   why    why

Magic

I don’t know this way, do I?

I turn around to look at this, this slowly fading aurora, as it surrounds me, envelops me, consumes me? Have I already lost it all? Is this land but an epitome to the great adventure that we once had, when we were just foals, and we thought the world was far and flat. So simple, then it seems, that what began, should only end; and that the sands we shifted, the seeds we sowed, should be lost to the spiraling vortex of time, as a unhappy way to its loss, a forgotten path trudged only by one. There’s a fineness to that, a visibility of the most refined and twisted kind; standing, waiting for all of us to be swallowed and embraced by the great timelessness that is the abyss, a pitfall that we created of our own, and for our own, so that we would never be lost, so that we would never completely be discovered.

And so, it is with this that I begin; that I shall begin, beginning to look backwards, into the hole that we once created, that the lives we once lived shall not be lived in vain and the winds we regurgitated and please please don’t leave me I promise you you won’t be sad just please please help to be carried on afterthoughts we once called our own, only to shake and crumble on the vast scrutiny that punctuates our short and humble existence.

And so, do you know waves? Do you know pain?

Let’s begin.

Frien

“Twilight, darling, are you alright?”

“Wakey-wakey, Twiley, can you hear us?”

“Hell-o, anybody in there, Twilight?”

“Hold on nelly, Twilight, get a hold of yourself, girl.”

“Oh my, Twilight, are you alright?”

The lavender pony awoke from her stupor, dissipating a lifetime’s worth of fatigue. “Ughhh,” She blinked wearily. “What happened?”

“Heehee, I don’t know!”

“You went all googly-eyed on us for a second.”

“It looked as if you were in the worst of health!”

“Yes, Twilight, you looked terrible.”

“Meh, she was probably just dreaming.”

“Huh.” The lavender pony took some time to regain her bearings. She muttered reassuringly. “Well, I’m fine now.”

“Hmph, well isn’t that great.” A rainbow-maned pony took off and scanned the skies, as if an eagle searching for its next prey. After a moment, she motioned back to the group on the ground. “Well, are we going on the picnic or what?”

There was a general murmur of assent, and the ponies started moving in the direction of the rainbow-maned pony. However, as one of them was taking a step to leave, she spun around and exclaimed to the lavender pony behind. “By heavens, Twilight, you have to have the palest face I’ve ever seen on a pony before in my life. Are you sure you’re alright?”

The lavender pony blinked. “Yes,” She smiled weakly. “I’m fine.”