Short Venuesby TheStratovarianChaptersDysthymiaRainShelterDysthymiaThe pre-dawn light spilled forth from sol's orb ascending. Quiet, serene, in its beckoning call. Moving through its motions long made immortal. Many moved through their own rituals, gathering, stepping out, eating. All to pause, however briefly, as she moved by, through, and within her song. No words, no harmony, to echo in the fading sands of luna's dreamscape to waking and sleeping minds. Her song spoke, ever changing its perspective upon all ears. Some would pine for those long lost. Others aired grievances left buried, more still wept, reminders of what could have been lingering before them, ashen. Onward she marched, her pace patient, her grace serene, ethereal, as ichorous tones spilled outward, opening what night and day kept hidden. Ponies did, ponies acted, and discord merely watched, an ear knowing of her song in the brightest day. One that he might see, but dared not touch, in wrath redoubled. He would only turn, and bless those of nature, and its guardian with his own kindness. Tenebrous, her words had delved deep upon one in distant time, whom stirred at such dulcet tones, recalling lessons learned. The grace of alabaster, shining forth in the thrice bound orb from on high in morning light. Smells and ambiance bringing a shiver of other times, before will and forgiveness strode forth to banish the foggy nightmares with love and lessons truly learned. Far distant, of city gleaming bright, two stirred, joined, apart, but truly together hugged in the mourning light, thoughts listening to their curse, and burden, shouldered willingly so long ago. Of so many left behind, through the ages. Burdened by the ever encroaching sands of time, until they to were to be sifted back upon the grand machine. Smiles, intermixed with tears, would linger that day. They understood, after all. Still, amongst the marketplaces crowd, the pink hued one sung, antlers ringing in the aether swirling about her task. Her dues and tasks set forth by will indomitable. And in such an epicenter, the conflagration started. Words to spark dry and dusty timbers, left upon the earth enchanted, given life by time and unsaid promises. Action spoke then, of hooves and bodies. The passion interposed with pain. And for such a time, bedlam ruled in the chorus. Until another sung. Until she sung back. She stood before her, eyes sparkling, tears, of her wounds visible. She knew, of hardship. She knew, of pain, of toil. Of pain not given, but earned to eke and live. She sung, not of the dark, but in love, of laughter. She saw, and she saw. They knew, and they wept, for their harmony was complete. They sung, together, swaying the moment, imperceptibly, tears intermixed between the bedlam fading, passion and anger long banished with but the briefest of notes. The moment paused, as the moment ended, and began anew. Those seeing the sight before them looked away, shame warring with regret, their wounds cleansed, as they moved in unison to the downcast pink mare. Yet she would smile.Yet she would move on, not through them, but to her mirror in song. Her words amongst the throng would banish such lingering moments, but her eyes, would match the knowing look. And she moved. She moved onward, back home, beckoning a reunion long delayed. They knew, between them. No words could be spoken, but the song they shared was all. A bakery, it would be noted was kept closed that day, notices left in words regrettable, but taken with understanding. This was personal, each visitor understood, as they paused to look, hearing the song woven behind those doors. Harmony provided, after all. And for that day, they reconnected, they shared, they understood, and they were one. Both understood, both lamented, both laughed, and spoke the songs they lived. They understood, after all. Author's Note A rather particular song and image art sorta brought this one on late one night with my muse, and yeah. I've been one to be unhappy for a very long time. RainPain, intermixed with sandy ashes. A foul taste, rancid, still lingering on her tongue in a moment amongst the dusty plains. There were no words, in the dust, in the echoes. Here, it was silent. No love shared, no joyous refrain. Just dust, and silence. Standing, a feat all its own in the broken sands. Moving, a second miracle, to find her staggering onward, another form not far. A daughter, gifted of words, speaking no more. A moment spared, one of many for peace. Forward she moved, forward she had to. The day moved, the night rose, and cycles to repeat. In time, she gathered. In time, she collected. In time, they would arrive. The winds would keep her company, the sand, dry her tears, thousands of names, ten score more of memories to sift through, and bury along with each. It would come in time, the melancholy, and the pain. Numbness would last only so, but she could only walk forward, even as she yearned to let the sands catch her. None could see, none would. Kingdoms of mighty yore, trembled, but in such an end, were dust. Only memory, only time, and only a head held high to endure. Soon, she smiled, in her pain, of wounds desiccated and cleansed of ichor. Plates ground and cleansed through sands scourging touch. A moment of living, through the numbness. To know, to scar, and to endure through it all. And so, were they gathered, their valkyrie, their shepherd, angel and mother. The equestrians would come, of such she was sure. But here was not for them, this was for her, of those left behind. Another etch, another wound, to mar a broken ruler of a broken people. They would endure, for nothing else mattered. So she began, a quiet drone, of wind whipping through, of wings, broken, magic and more billowing the flames higher unto the sky. A storm to gather, a storm to make, and bring life through the passing into tomorrow. Tirelessly she would work, through pain, through sobs, and tears, through her dreams and pleading future. Night and day, each to pause upon the dawn, and upon the dusk. Soon, the bonfire began, and sooner still, did the storm begin. A conflagration of black smoke, stretching into the horizon. Only now, did she pause, only now did she sit, collapsing into her children gather so in her aid. And smiling she was, tired, beaten, broken, but smiling in part, breathlessly, bonelessly, for she had assured them passage, and nothing else mattered with the first drops of rain. There would be no hunger to claim them, to claw them. But freedom of their former shells, worn and broken in such a land. The rain would fall. The rain, would pour forth is bounty, and to a barren land, it would grow, if only for a day, its hunger too, sated, for life to bloom. Now, she could rest, now she would only need endure the gentle rain. Author's Note This was the other one, inspired by a lovely work of art, and of some relaxing aspects from mynoise. I will have more, but for once.. I'm not feeling the melancholy, or as down. ShelterAuthor's Note I was in a dark mood in writing this, but this is something out of personal experience. Shelter Oh, a visitor. It’s not often we get one like you. Though in recent years. Hmm, I suppose you are being more common nowadays. You are free to roam, of course, try the door behind you, to the right, and left. I wont be far, just waiting here for you to acclimate yourself. You’ll be here a while I’m afraid. I know you have words, but speaking, you can’t, can you? I hope you find your voice. It is possible, we all had to learn after all. But do you want to? I can hear those thoughts, rattling, ever so bright. And we are, in here. We burn bright, but we are held in our little lanterns, shuttled and held in our prisons. And make no mistake, we both are. You can run, you can hide, heavens above, I know I’ve tried. Thirty years, of stones, barbs, and arrows. Words that cut deep. To judging eyes that dare look on with pity, to those seeing you as weak, an easy target no one defends. They will cut you when you aren’t looking. And back in here you will be. It is, if one thing, safe in here. Just mind the shadows, after all. You are young however, and the shadows will not be long. Not yet, but they build, and you will remember in time, the actions. I know, as you will, and in part you do. You hear it in my voice. That distance, that pain. We endure, child. We endure. Because the world does not want us. We are different than them. But I have held enough of your time here, and proper introductions are in store. I would bid you welcome, from a prison there in I call home. A tour of course, I give, not out desire, nor courtesy, but a simple elegance in which seeing the truth enlightens one as the epiphany might. This is not a prison of bars, ties, social bonds. There is an elegance in its simplicity. It is of which every warden may avail himself to achieve, but never able to by the bonds of law he must adhere to. A prisoner born, life and spirit bound into form mortal, the time set, in and of this we have only guesswork until the final tok, or tick of the clock to announce the final bell. If we are lucky, we may have a final meal. But I hold no illusions on that. No kindness such as that exists. Come now, you have in this step, achieved the choice of making. It matters not in knowing or being aware. Just the same, you, the same as I desires to live. The walls here will always be vivid to you and I, and those that come behind us. Just as they have for those before us. We see, we hear. And the wolves wait out there. Take a moment to gaze, after all, in these words, your eyes mark me. They carry me, judge me and weigh me with these words with a knowledge of instilled values. The preconceptions, and mutable facts that carry alongside us. All in just being an individual. Take another step forward, and look upon the form and gaze you have. And we can continue this diatribe of denunciation amongst ourselves. At least, for said moment. Because we speak without speaking of the act. As we do for hearing what lies beyond the ken. For which I thank you, because it is a lonely place here, and however brief we may touch in our views. It is a welcome reprieve., Appreciate this silence, however long winded it might be. Should you find your voice, I hope you might nod back one day, in understanding to this conundrum. The font of knowledge to what we are clearer in some fashion. You are traveling, or have stayed regardless. I do not hear anymore, nor see. But ah, I still sense that which is about. Ah, where might one such as you end up? Hmm, I cannot say, fate falls not in my jurisdiction. You may be rich, you may be poor. Or of gifted means. I may hope, but reality will not oblige us on that matter. Look around you, if you might humor me? Does the sun shine, does the sky flow with the graces of a warm day? Take a minute, and appreciate this bounty, even bleak. For if you are to be like me, you will find those gifts of sight a curse as you see it all. It will burn in, scalding and crackling. It will assault, every flicker, every moment of motion a constant drain on focus and willpower. And it will not end there. Hear the dulcet tones of music, the souls of everyone about. The passage of time and wind. Everything to screech against you like a rusty nail dragged screaming across glass. Every second, until, back here you will search, and you will find. The gentle caress of fabric, the wind blowing against you, the warm or cool sun. All the little comforts. The simple things no one even thinks of. Little daggers to twist in, to cut, to burn with ice and fire. And the world will laugh. They will think you crazy, as they had me. With these little wonders of half-thought. With all that is twisted, and all that is wrong. And there is much more, should I peruse it. But simply reflect, that is only the beginning, and your whole life to adapt just with those. Instead I will ask. How might you endure these above, warping, scalding, overwhelming, every second, every day? These shall be your fetters, shackles and chains of base variety. None will know, for if luck should favor you, a voice you might have. But she is far more cruel than kind.. Can you live? Will you live, striving to better yourself? When so much is missing, and I haven’t yet talked about your cruelest warden in this prison. Oh no, we can hardly forget the axis of your very own thoughts, aligned against the norm. You will find a gift of brilliance, even in your prison, locked in this place. But such will not be one shared. No, it will find itself in a singular, a moment that for good or ill will define everything of your love, your happiness. And maybe, perhaps maybe, if you can condition, can break the mind, ever so slight, might expand that love into more. Ah, if only, after all. By now, I would guess, you have gone. But such is to be expected. They do not wish to see what horrors can afflict those nearby, silent in their plight. There is kindness in ignorance. There is serenity in not knowing. I can only ask, to beg, or plead, that if you are there, to listen further. In donning the brand, with so many wrongs, and worse still, we so often break under this. I ask, that you help those of us that are truly afflicted. Support us. Help us stand. Give us refuge. Let us blossom. Yes, we are prickly, and difficult. But we are loyal. We are honest. We are kind. And we can laugh, happy, the rarest place we may ever find ourselves in. Is an open happy that balms even the darkest soul. That is perhaps the lament of ages. We can do, we can be. But we can not do such alone. We are broken, incomplete. And we must depend on you. We have no choice. We have no choice. And that perhaps is where I leave this. I return to the dark. And hope. And pray. That I might have found ground in which those you may yet meet. Can live.
DysthymiaThe pre-dawn light spilled forth from sol's orb ascending. Quiet, serene, in its beckoning call. Moving through its motions long made immortal. Many moved through their own rituals, gathering, stepping out, eating. All to pause, however briefly, as she moved by, through, and within her song. No words, no harmony, to echo in the fading sands of luna's dreamscape to waking and sleeping minds. Her song spoke, ever changing its perspective upon all ears. Some would pine for those long lost. Others aired grievances left buried, more still wept, reminders of what could have been lingering before them, ashen. Onward she marched, her pace patient, her grace serene, ethereal, as ichorous tones spilled outward, opening what night and day kept hidden. Ponies did, ponies acted, and discord merely watched, an ear knowing of her song in the brightest day. One that he might see, but dared not touch, in wrath redoubled. He would only turn, and bless those of nature, and its guardian with his own kindness. Tenebrous, her words had delved deep upon one in distant time, whom stirred at such dulcet tones, recalling lessons learned. The grace of alabaster, shining forth in the thrice bound orb from on high in morning light. Smells and ambiance bringing a shiver of other times, before will and forgiveness strode forth to banish the foggy nightmares with love and lessons truly learned. Far distant, of city gleaming bright, two stirred, joined, apart, but truly together hugged in the mourning light, thoughts listening to their curse, and burden, shouldered willingly so long ago. Of so many left behind, through the ages. Burdened by the ever encroaching sands of time, until they to were to be sifted back upon the grand machine. Smiles, intermixed with tears, would linger that day. They understood, after all. Still, amongst the marketplaces crowd, the pink hued one sung, antlers ringing in the aether swirling about her task. Her dues and tasks set forth by will indomitable. And in such an epicenter, the conflagration started. Words to spark dry and dusty timbers, left upon the earth enchanted, given life by time and unsaid promises. Action spoke then, of hooves and bodies. The passion interposed with pain. And for such a time, bedlam ruled in the chorus. Until another sung. Until she sung back. She stood before her, eyes sparkling, tears, of her wounds visible. She knew, of hardship. She knew, of pain, of toil. Of pain not given, but earned to eke and live. She sung, not of the dark, but in love, of laughter. She saw, and she saw. They knew, and they wept, for their harmony was complete. They sung, together, swaying the moment, imperceptibly, tears intermixed between the bedlam fading, passion and anger long banished with but the briefest of notes. The moment paused, as the moment ended, and began anew. Those seeing the sight before them looked away, shame warring with regret, their wounds cleansed, as they moved in unison to the downcast pink mare. Yet she would smile.Yet she would move on, not through them, but to her mirror in song. Her words amongst the throng would banish such lingering moments, but her eyes, would match the knowing look. And she moved. She moved onward, back home, beckoning a reunion long delayed. They knew, between them. No words could be spoken, but the song they shared was all. A bakery, it would be noted was kept closed that day, notices left in words regrettable, but taken with understanding. This was personal, each visitor understood, as they paused to look, hearing the song woven behind those doors. Harmony provided, after all. And for that day, they reconnected, they shared, they understood, and they were one. Both understood, both lamented, both laughed, and spoke the songs they lived. They understood, after all. Author's Note A rather particular song and image art sorta brought this one on late one night with my muse, and yeah. I've been one to be unhappy for a very long time.
RainPain, intermixed with sandy ashes. A foul taste, rancid, still lingering on her tongue in a moment amongst the dusty plains. There were no words, in the dust, in the echoes. Here, it was silent. No love shared, no joyous refrain. Just dust, and silence. Standing, a feat all its own in the broken sands. Moving, a second miracle, to find her staggering onward, another form not far. A daughter, gifted of words, speaking no more. A moment spared, one of many for peace. Forward she moved, forward she had to. The day moved, the night rose, and cycles to repeat. In time, she gathered. In time, she collected. In time, they would arrive. The winds would keep her company, the sand, dry her tears, thousands of names, ten score more of memories to sift through, and bury along with each. It would come in time, the melancholy, and the pain. Numbness would last only so, but she could only walk forward, even as she yearned to let the sands catch her. None could see, none would. Kingdoms of mighty yore, trembled, but in such an end, were dust. Only memory, only time, and only a head held high to endure. Soon, she smiled, in her pain, of wounds desiccated and cleansed of ichor. Plates ground and cleansed through sands scourging touch. A moment of living, through the numbness. To know, to scar, and to endure through it all. And so, were they gathered, their valkyrie, their shepherd, angel and mother. The equestrians would come, of such she was sure. But here was not for them, this was for her, of those left behind. Another etch, another wound, to mar a broken ruler of a broken people. They would endure, for nothing else mattered. So she began, a quiet drone, of wind whipping through, of wings, broken, magic and more billowing the flames higher unto the sky. A storm to gather, a storm to make, and bring life through the passing into tomorrow. Tirelessly she would work, through pain, through sobs, and tears, through her dreams and pleading future. Night and day, each to pause upon the dawn, and upon the dusk. Soon, the bonfire began, and sooner still, did the storm begin. A conflagration of black smoke, stretching into the horizon. Only now, did she pause, only now did she sit, collapsing into her children gather so in her aid. And smiling she was, tired, beaten, broken, but smiling in part, breathlessly, bonelessly, for she had assured them passage, and nothing else mattered with the first drops of rain. There would be no hunger to claim them, to claw them. But freedom of their former shells, worn and broken in such a land. The rain would fall. The rain, would pour forth is bounty, and to a barren land, it would grow, if only for a day, its hunger too, sated, for life to bloom. Now, she could rest, now she would only need endure the gentle rain. Author's Note This was the other one, inspired by a lovely work of art, and of some relaxing aspects from mynoise. I will have more, but for once.. I'm not feeling the melancholy, or as down.
ShelterAuthor's Note I was in a dark mood in writing this, but this is something out of personal experience. Shelter Oh, a visitor. It’s not often we get one like you. Though in recent years. Hmm, I suppose you are being more common nowadays. You are free to roam, of course, try the door behind you, to the right, and left. I wont be far, just waiting here for you to acclimate yourself. You’ll be here a while I’m afraid. I know you have words, but speaking, you can’t, can you? I hope you find your voice. It is possible, we all had to learn after all. But do you want to? I can hear those thoughts, rattling, ever so bright. And we are, in here. We burn bright, but we are held in our little lanterns, shuttled and held in our prisons. And make no mistake, we both are. You can run, you can hide, heavens above, I know I’ve tried. Thirty years, of stones, barbs, and arrows. Words that cut deep. To judging eyes that dare look on with pity, to those seeing you as weak, an easy target no one defends. They will cut you when you aren’t looking. And back in here you will be. It is, if one thing, safe in here. Just mind the shadows, after all. You are young however, and the shadows will not be long. Not yet, but they build, and you will remember in time, the actions. I know, as you will, and in part you do. You hear it in my voice. That distance, that pain. We endure, child. We endure. Because the world does not want us. We are different than them. But I have held enough of your time here, and proper introductions are in store. I would bid you welcome, from a prison there in I call home. A tour of course, I give, not out desire, nor courtesy, but a simple elegance in which seeing the truth enlightens one as the epiphany might. This is not a prison of bars, ties, social bonds. There is an elegance in its simplicity. It is of which every warden may avail himself to achieve, but never able to by the bonds of law he must adhere to. A prisoner born, life and spirit bound into form mortal, the time set, in and of this we have only guesswork until the final tok, or tick of the clock to announce the final bell. If we are lucky, we may have a final meal. But I hold no illusions on that. No kindness such as that exists. Come now, you have in this step, achieved the choice of making. It matters not in knowing or being aware. Just the same, you, the same as I desires to live. The walls here will always be vivid to you and I, and those that come behind us. Just as they have for those before us. We see, we hear. And the wolves wait out there. Take a moment to gaze, after all, in these words, your eyes mark me. They carry me, judge me and weigh me with these words with a knowledge of instilled values. The preconceptions, and mutable facts that carry alongside us. All in just being an individual. Take another step forward, and look upon the form and gaze you have. And we can continue this diatribe of denunciation amongst ourselves. At least, for said moment. Because we speak without speaking of the act. As we do for hearing what lies beyond the ken. For which I thank you, because it is a lonely place here, and however brief we may touch in our views. It is a welcome reprieve., Appreciate this silence, however long winded it might be. Should you find your voice, I hope you might nod back one day, in understanding to this conundrum. The font of knowledge to what we are clearer in some fashion. You are traveling, or have stayed regardless. I do not hear anymore, nor see. But ah, I still sense that which is about. Ah, where might one such as you end up? Hmm, I cannot say, fate falls not in my jurisdiction. You may be rich, you may be poor. Or of gifted means. I may hope, but reality will not oblige us on that matter. Look around you, if you might humor me? Does the sun shine, does the sky flow with the graces of a warm day? Take a minute, and appreciate this bounty, even bleak. For if you are to be like me, you will find those gifts of sight a curse as you see it all. It will burn in, scalding and crackling. It will assault, every flicker, every moment of motion a constant drain on focus and willpower. And it will not end there. Hear the dulcet tones of music, the souls of everyone about. The passage of time and wind. Everything to screech against you like a rusty nail dragged screaming across glass. Every second, until, back here you will search, and you will find. The gentle caress of fabric, the wind blowing against you, the warm or cool sun. All the little comforts. The simple things no one even thinks of. Little daggers to twist in, to cut, to burn with ice and fire. And the world will laugh. They will think you crazy, as they had me. With these little wonders of half-thought. With all that is twisted, and all that is wrong. And there is much more, should I peruse it. But simply reflect, that is only the beginning, and your whole life to adapt just with those. Instead I will ask. How might you endure these above, warping, scalding, overwhelming, every second, every day? These shall be your fetters, shackles and chains of base variety. None will know, for if luck should favor you, a voice you might have. But she is far more cruel than kind.. Can you live? Will you live, striving to better yourself? When so much is missing, and I haven’t yet talked about your cruelest warden in this prison. Oh no, we can hardly forget the axis of your very own thoughts, aligned against the norm. You will find a gift of brilliance, even in your prison, locked in this place. But such will not be one shared. No, it will find itself in a singular, a moment that for good or ill will define everything of your love, your happiness. And maybe, perhaps maybe, if you can condition, can break the mind, ever so slight, might expand that love into more. Ah, if only, after all. By now, I would guess, you have gone. But such is to be expected. They do not wish to see what horrors can afflict those nearby, silent in their plight. There is kindness in ignorance. There is serenity in not knowing. I can only ask, to beg, or plead, that if you are there, to listen further. In donning the brand, with so many wrongs, and worse still, we so often break under this. I ask, that you help those of us that are truly afflicted. Support us. Help us stand. Give us refuge. Let us blossom. Yes, we are prickly, and difficult. But we are loyal. We are honest. We are kind. And we can laugh, happy, the rarest place we may ever find ourselves in. Is an open happy that balms even the darkest soul. That is perhaps the lament of ages. We can do, we can be. But we can not do such alone. We are broken, incomplete. And we must depend on you. We have no choice. We have no choice. And that perhaps is where I leave this. I return to the dark. And hope. And pray. That I might have found ground in which those you may yet meet. Can live.
