If Questions played RPGs, they would probably fail most quests, and the main quest line would take years, if not eons to finish...but can they even play the game?
And so it again is, as it was, as it will continue to be, perhaps as it always will be, will it always be? Can it always be? Has it always be? What is be? Why is be? Why can why be, be why?
Can a single word be a sincere question? If the meaning of a word is answered with many words, can just one word answer many questions? Can it even question?
Can you question?
Do you?
Do I?
What of the questions of options? And the options of questions?
This is all very questionable, as are all questions. The matter now questioned is an entirely different question. The question of questions is the question to be questioned. Questions?
~~THERE IS NO TIME FOR QUESTIONS.~~
The end of all things is in questions!
Apologies friends, I am just the body that operates ink and quill. I do not know why these serpents constrict my body so very tightly.
Please help.
It hurts.
I only know that words leave a peculiar aftertaste upon leaving the muzzle, and they so often fail to convey their intended meaning.
These and, forever with gratitude, more than these.
Familiar?
Perhaps.
What?
Definitely
Confused?
Indubitably.
Annoyed.
Sincerely?
Welcome!
As sand does dust the side from the mountain with little more than breath and time, Twilight folds wings, battered and bruised.
She leans, and as her body advances in its arc, she accelerates, and then falls down through heavens to the earth below.
Howling air grasps tears firmly, and pulls them from her face, as does sand rip the face from the mountain. She watches the ground rush swiftly towards her, with trees like grubby, greedy claws reaching up to take her.
The sun peers over the horizon, as a newborn, for the first time peeking at the world beyond the rim of her crib.
This is when the colors wake up.
She observes herself approach the ground, winds screaming in her ear. Roads find new clarity, as winding arteries and veins take form all across the landscape.
Tears recede as claws give way to trees, beautiful trees, with iridescent leaves illuminated by the forgotten dawn.
Her tired eyes are now wide.
Perhaps inspired by a number of many things, clumsy and bruised wings reveal their grace.
Strength remembered, direction reversed, she is propelled up and up and up, by wings only recently accepted as her own.
This is a miraculous feat within itself, the acceptance of greatness so suddenly thrust upon one so worthy, she thought her self not so.
That muzzle reveals a smile in all its brilliance.
With each spoken syllable, and each scream of her heart, her wings beat her back up into one heaven.
"How many roads must a mare walk down!"
"That is it!"
Ponies below turn to little more than ants upon stone. Perhaps to them she is little more than a bird, far off in the distance.
Road and ants and life itself retreat behind silver and grey.
Up she goes.
But as the clouds turn to little more than puffs of grey smoke below she realizes that, no, this is not it. And again she realizes that there has never been a time where she was completely accurate on the total nature of it.
Her smile moves west with the clouds and her newfound optimism, vanishing beyond the horizon. She watches, her back to the rising sun.
Again she returns to those same thoughts, those thoughts that danced circles on thoughts with direction and purpose.
But they can only fly away, later to return to roost, perching upon the beautiful futility of it all, life and the universe and everything else.
The trees and the roads and the ants all return to their true nature, colorful blotches of distant geometry.
And she is there, where she always was, but not so.
What did she do to deserve this,
Immortality?
Blessed with the curse of watching the world wither and die, only to be born anew from the dust. Blessed to gain everything, only to lose it, over and over again. Cemented within a body so unfit and unwilling to adapt to change, yet forever kept from shore by restless tides.
What a cruel joke.
Who told it?
She snorts in exasperation. Her breath freezes shortly after escaping her lungs, and drops out of sight and mind.
She is so high up now, she wonders if it is cold.
She thinks that, all probabilities considered, it is probably cold.
But she is not cold.
She has never been cold, or rather, it was never she who was cold.
Previously, she had merely felt the cold.
It was the world that was cold.
She no longer feels cold.
I should donate my sweaters, she thinks.
She laughs.
She laughs because here she is, at the brink of everything she has ever known and forgotten. Everyone she has ever fought with, laughed with, and loved with resided somewhere among those distant blotches, those fractal stains upon a time woven carpet of earth...
And here is is, thinking about sweaters.
She laughs.
It is a soft laughter at first, and if there was any pony to hear it, surely the sound is lost among the raging air. But this is irrelevant, for she laughed for no one, at no one, with no one. She did this for no one, and thus for everyone.
The soft chimes of her joy grow louder. She finally hears the sound above the currents.
What a beautiful sound it is.
It is louder now.
One would struggle to hear the raging air.
The windchimes shift to bells, great church bells smelted from the bones of the earth, bellowing out the time.
Then movement bestows itself upon a form so stationary despite such great shifts in its place. She grips her aching and scarred sides, rolling through the air, her screaming laughter calls out to all the heavens.
And so it happens, simply and positively by that happening mortals call chance, her spiral brought her face to face with the true heaven, her back to the rock below.
She sees.
She remembers what was forgotten.
"What happens, if I keep flying up?"
