Begin with a song. Inhale, exhale. I try to make everyone happy, but what about
What about me?
Is it too much to ask
Is it too much of a chore?
For someone to stick around unlike everyone before
Everyone before
Denouement
It is a jester, it makes you want to laugh, an immovable barrier that appears in front of your eyes, heroes and bards. Laughter. Are elsewhere; plasters come and form in the barrier between the edge of your hooves and the start of its breath, unreachable, and you realize, and you realize, you realize where you are. Hell is so cold. The lonely in their homes, the elderly in somber of amnesia, like the dead in the grave; right in silent, pure in their fear; the poor in the face of their one singular dream, like the blank flank, the mares with no home to return, the mares who’s home is too far from earth, like a prisoner in his sorrow and plead for all a drop of mercy; like husks which are not empty; snowflakes in the middle of rainstorm, like travelers and the death of Appleloosa; the ponies whom nopony cares, nopony realizes are there, are the ponies who have surpassed life, strangled death, because death is all accounted on the basis that the life has hitherto been remembered; because they no longer are; that they still open their mouths to sing an encore of their tragic plays that are perceived by the devil as another comedy, but nopony is there to hear, to agree, to ovate.
Everything comes to an end for a reason. But you think that nopony, nobody. Really knows why,
In this blessed night, in this blessed time there is no day nor night; your eyes they have been adjusting forever; that the jester prances in its lonesome act in the middle and you feel your mind becoming weak. But, you feel your mind, you feel it again. You close your eyes and try to blur away these incredulous dances and piercing heats of white that comes back to your forelimbs. It is just another dream... because you only want to be happy. To denouement: it is an encore, only an encore will always have its own denouement; there may be another encore, but how many of the original audience will still hear, still stand, still ovate. Prances to the forefront then to the back then to the sideways the Jester—bleeding; that it is now no longer leaping the Jester; it was and the spring to the touch was tavern camaraderie, upon the nape, the brand stings, and begins to bleed; and the Black Death outruns the pagans; and the end of ponies is halted by the cease of the beginning; the jester it is spared; like the way the hindlimb is no longer leaping but walking the jester; that almost like a devil’s testimony to the human spirit of Anthropology that there would be no prostration; have the knees taken away; and forelimbs are bent, the jester. What is a limb. But still does and prances the jester. The purpose: is because there is a song... and there is no reason, but it is there; as it is yesterday, as it was tomorrow: this inhale; this exhale; the unadulterated creation of breath; that you have been forsaken; a moment that is dead to you and forbidden; that but it is there, that you begin to wonder; that there is no draw back or double-take on the fact that there is a thought, that there is a voice; burst forth will make the faces inside of the metal framework of infantry calvary a scream that is death and unholy, that words are with voice, that they are not sane, but that they are, that they do no longer remember. That they begin to try to.
Begin with a song.
End with a suicide. Encore with silence, because nopony finds themselves before this gravestone with an empty name and a single date. The only eulogy is the audible and delectable delight of the maggots and the ants. It is lonely... as it has always longed for a friend. There won’t be solace, even in death. Death, is accounted on the life hitherto remembered. That and there is nopony who remembers you, nopony at all.
Light,
Is broken down by the feeble touchdown of the jester, like all the jesters, it only want to make you smile. There is no instrument, there is only a body, and the body might make you scream. But you have already seen too much of the likes of these... these...
all of these... beautiful... things...
that none of that even matters anymore... you close your eyes... they are still open to begin with... that a Konhayna Green Beast’s pupil stood up from nothing but mere will... that you now want to close your eyes... and feel the endless song...
That it begins to spark in you, again...
Like it has always, always sparked within you...
Dear
What lies after death? Is it peace? Is it still torment? Why is heaven the end of all pains and suffering; but not all pain and suffering’s end? Can heaven escape the hangman of tears? And what lies after heaven? Is it hell? What lies after hell? Is hell not still not the worst feeling?
Because what lies beyond death is no such thing as nothing. But it is only regret.
You don’t understand; it’s like some foreign medicine is shoved into your mouth, it’s like some strange utterance of somepony’s spellcast is charming out of your mouth. To a play; to a costume: to two princesses, to two friends. Foalhood friends. Like laughter.
You are humming the lyrics to a tune that you can no longer remember why it seems to tell you that you are something. That you have always been something.
Why are you trying to remember...?
Go to sleep...
Because there are deaths, that are suffered for; that are not forgiven.
Because there are lives of real ponies and real creatures that have never experienced what it is like to be within the embrace of a real, true friend. Because there are far worse pains in this world than to shook the world, to never receive an applause. The only pain that is far worse than living a life where nopony remembers the good that you’ve done is a life that everypony has seen and can remember that you have done not a single good thing at all. Is it enough that a legacy is spanned forth in front of you, that it may lay there like a temptation; a glass of water; two forelimbs outstretched; when you are starved of everything; that you must feel like the lonely in their homes; like the elderly in the somber of amnesia, like the dead in the graves; that even though you cannot touch it, you cannot touch it, that you want to touch it, all that you’ve always wanted was only to just touch it; that you cannot feel it, because you were afraid that you would’ve never become the same, that even if you loved somepony; that you clung onto that love; that that somepony was a stranger that nopony loved, that that stranger was the only pony that had ever loved you, and why: it still does; because it still loves you, even in this place, that there is silence and the incomprehensible feeling far worse than feeling nothing, that you are feeling so, so, so lonely, that it still loves you all the more; more than ever, why: more than ever before; because in here, you are close to it; closer to it than ever; than ever before, that hearts to hearts with it, to for forelimbs to forelimbs, that both these pairs of forelimbs rise, outstretch, reach out, and embrace you, that you are word to word with it; these words are not a consolation, but an appreciation, because these words are not a mockery; but a ode of love. That these words are not a lament: but a song; that this song is not a duet; a Melodious; not a Lunatic’s Dream; not of Industry; not of Heroes and Bards; of Green is The New Pink; of The Firmaments, of Everypony is Made To Be Loved; of What Sound a Stone Makes, of Being There, of Crescendo, of Diminuendo, of Denouement, of the ending, not of a beginning. Even though it is just a continuation....
...You will still die to yourself to make Somepony happy...
...Because life doesn’t end just because the body has died like the jesters...
No, Dr. Hayriluk was wrong...
Life does not just because one is forgotten. Because there is still Somepony who is alive so that nopony is forgotten at all...
Because life does not end in this space between the heaven and earth and hell and the realm of all the Firmaments. Because even in the Firmaments. There is love, there is care, there is memory.
And there is something greater than the Firmaments here.
You remember your life, you have not been aware you have been trying to forget, these evening light; these ribbons, this untangling, this love. Roller skates, only there are now tears. Because it’s an explosion of something you have never felt in a space where millennia occurs in but a moment’s second; all at once it is a rush of something strong that hurts your eyes, of strange molds of something that bend strong thing into billion kinds of variations; of rising in your chest; rising to applaud; to ovate; as you remember; you have told somepony to care, not to hate, and just to love, that that somepony, went alone, and stood, and began to ovate, and she was the only pony in that show to ovate; whereas there would be everything that you had longed for to never burn you inside that heart again; because you no longer wanted to feel: that you now remember: that what you now feel: is a mixture of everything you had always longed to feel: of anger; of love of hate of joy of chaos; of song; of disgust; because you have stooped so low this way. Confusion, why you are in this place. What wrong, what have you done to be in this place. Of bittersweet, HEAR ME! LISTEN TO ME! LISTEN TO ME! LISTEN TO ME! LISTEN TO ME! I WANT SOMEPONY TO LISTEN TO ME! Of anger to who knows who can receive it now; of love, because it is the only thing keeping you and the Somepony together; of hate for there were too many more things to do and so many more things to understand and friends; of joy for there was life; and life was not good: but it bore fruit—and the fruit was good, as it was tomorrow; a legacy; a total, but thoughtless, total ode. Of chaos; because lies are still hidden underneath stone and rocks that are no longer above the skin, but beneath it. That there will be never a pony, never a pony again, to make the chaos turn into a longing to love, of song. Because that love comes back to a song, it doesn’t return, not gyrate, not repeats. But continues. That in the midsts of times, it will be frivolous, that the drops be like the rising and falling of panting breaths, of stock markets and murmurs of laughter; of ponies’ heartbeats, of winter wisps; there will always be a better day, that the rise of that is stronger than the last, that the climax of life will never be at the denouement; but at the encore: that there will always be among those days the Somepony who will choose to love you; that you must hold on, even if the act is already stupid, if it’s worthless loving in a world that won’t love you back, because there’s that hardness in your chest again: and there is nopony around you to embrace you and to let the tears far in their mane so that this feeling will go away, because there will always be; at the end of the line; waiting for you, barely able to hold back in a shivering temptation to break forth: an applause, a standing ovation, a demand for encore; that that encore may be nothing but your own applause, your own ovation, because you remember, because you begin once more again to remember; because something inside you is still making you remember, this hurt in your eyes: it is called light, it has a name, and it is so beautiful, this is a billion kind of variations of light and prismatic connotation, is called color; flying; it is slowly; beginning to paint in front of you something, and the things that conjoin these two things have a name, and they are images, and images appear first in the dot; like a baby foal; like a parent; and the images strewn together are called films; and the films are of a bittersweet lament; are of a quiet threnody of long-ago evening time that what slowly accompanies it, like the rising of a bulwark; like a spirit in a victory, like a hope in a defeat; is a wonderful thing that wafts, that breezes, that fills your ears, this is called sound, and this moment, this inhale; and exhale; and breath; and this sound is called a song; and song and the film; and the images and the colors; and the feeling inside of you of Foundations; of Symphony of Solitude; of Unsung, of Bridge, of Curse of The Ninth, of Beloved, of Easier Than Feeling, of All That’s Left You, all have a name; and that name is called memories: and all these memories are flowing in this place this moment—this endless inhale; nothing to exhale; this feeling, is all things; is anything but nothing and all things at once; is sadness; is Gehenna; is cold; cold; cold; is emptiness; is solace, is peace, is Neighvana.
Is hope.
Is silence.
Longing.
Is dream.
Is hope,
That all these memories come weeping to you; this endless inhale, nothing to exhale, only there is something to exhale, because there is still Somepony, because there is memory, and with memory there is without death; in inhale; to exhale:
is HOPE,—
is SONG,
is DECLARATION
IS REALIZATION
That there may not always be another day, but as long as you inhale and exhale: there will always be another song. That there is no such thing as a world without nothing because nothingness is not eternal, because Song had made nothingness itself once cease to be. This is not a valiant cry of lament; this is not an elegy, this is a song. That there is nopony to take that away from you. That there is Somepony to give it to you: because in this inhale; in this exhale, in this song, in this one thing you love, that makes up who you are; that makes up who you will always be, because you love that Somepony. And that Somepony will always love you.
This is an encore. This is your one last final standing. Not a beginning, but only a continuation. Chorus. There is an everlasting hymn. And Somepony is going to listen.
This is a hymn, of You:
There was no heart, there was no landing place; there was only the ponies, and the ponies were the heart, and you were not the death to the heart but you were the vascular muscle, you were and still are; this is a song that forever will be; for life is a song that will resonate over death; because life even forgotten will truly triumph over memory over death; there will be nothing more to the sound of falling rocks, to the end of the thousand songs of industry; for the bard in the colorful place is no longer filled with color, for the colors had emptied you. Death comes in a jovial whisper to the heart of all these ponies. They will understand that life will never be complete as long as they breathe; because the breathing one day will turn into labor; these sour times they taste will evaporate and become poison liquor; they understand there is no more thing to life than to wake up and fall asleep, in their dreams that don’t come often they will weep and wake up and feel sicker; that to fall asleep has become a burden as it is to remain awake through midnights, that there is no heart-race in the fear of a theif-loss, for nothing is there to be lost of; cyanamide and happiness are one-two in the same bottle, in the same bottle are medicine and beer and fine wine and broken blood and the essence of rainbow, in an empty sky.
Who goes there? Who is this? There is white; it is a trotting snow; and velvet hair, no colored eyes, tears. Who is this? There is a dream and it is in those eyes, strong and dazzling and beautiful and so; kind. But there is nopony here to be the audience. There are only racks again in a sentimental silence of thread, like many empty nooses being hanged. What is this feeling inside that wishes they’d all be gone. In the desperation of a fragile dream these were all constructed in the span of the eye and the eye sees forth sleepless nights and nightfall wakes and daytime nightmares and beautiful realities and beautiful realities that end once she stops dreaming. She is old now, this velvet is a tint; the poison seeps through the scalp and enters the brain. She is here now, this is all-too much faraway from home; because home was once the place where the ninth curse came like an early shocking Christmas, because home now was once the place she had loved but had understood that those who stand around her all love her but nopony likes her. And the Atronach’s Aura wafts these tears away to the departure and to the coming-of-age where the acne forms in the heart. Take a look back and roll back and wonder; what was there even a thing to begin with? That has love ever been such a fickle thing that came as a doubled-edge knife and one-sided gemstone blade. Make these dresses, they are for the eyes, but please touch them, but please touch them. But nopony touches them. There is no vileness to occupy the loincloth, but in an Uzumaki Junji Troto world how she would rather come Dying Young than living old.
She sits here in this carousel, riding alone. She will eventually notice her name. It is stitched in bright cloth other the entrance sign. It is as if this entrance sign is not there at all. She will realize eventually behind that name is nothing but cloth; for cloth is the foundation, and cloth is empty as wineskin, that she would take it down thread by thread, piece by piece, Flesh-Colored Horror, killing it all together, that behind the cloth is foundation, behind foundation is an act of desire; behind the desire is a lonesome ovation; behind the ovation is a booing and wooing that is silent and that is driven through the stomping the stomping of hooves, behind is a little foal, a little foal who will not die young, a dead dream that rises out of her mind like a stillbirth child, like a child she will lament over forever but will never have a grave, that the only Firmament is her own body as a poison Jinchūriki; this is the only vessel in the face of a raging sea where there is no more Jonah to help calm the waves, because behind that dream is a longing again, a simple longing that has turned desire into the need of pride, when the longing had been a longing for even a single pony’s love all along. That in the end of the day there is a love that is missing from this colorful friendship. There is a love that is missing from being spoon-fed and read to in bed and consoled in broken hearts of strange schools and silent tears. There is a love that she wants that must be given to her in a vessel that is void of bias that will look at her and immediately feel happy. That this kind of love can only be given to by a stranger, but in this industry, she is a stranger to nopony.
Take down that name; thread by thread; piece by piece; until you will find nothing more but a stranger who wants Somepony to love her as not a friend but as a stranger; thread by thread; piece by piece; until she will become a stranger she cannot recognize; to stitch it all together; for a friend; just for generosity; to stitch up something of one that defines yourself; will not be appreciated; will be demanded you look this way and trot that way; because she is not good enough. She will have to adjust like a one-million-faced facade of a face-stealing centipede to each and every stranger. Because amongst all of these new strangers there has not been a single one who looked at her and did not think of awe, but thought of being friends. She will retort to her own quarters where no sister or no cat who are still alive to tell her that it is all going to be alright. That in dreams she will always see the exact same dream and the exact same tears of longing. That in this dream she will always see a perfect stranger that pulls the thought that she is still alive, that this stranger appreciates a vestige of a talent that has been hoofed down to a name that she had thrown out of her hooves. This stranger understands that there is no more end in sight to this wonderful dream that just wants to make the world understand that she is alive and that she exists and that she is beautiful and not for the sake that she exists but because she strives to make her existence beautiful in an endless parade of unseen generosity like how the morning sun cannot be stared at directly and loved and cherished with the pony eyes but does not stop burning itself. That the stranger will always be familiar; a familiarity out of an unfamiliar notion of pony who have never shown her face to her; that this stranger is not Him; not a friend; not an admirer; not a hero; there is not a name, but yet again what exactly is there in a name. There is only a nameless, a nameless, an ignored tune, wafting, in the background of this pony stranger, that is perfectly ignored as much as she, that is seen as much as the sun but is never as majestic as the moon, that is as majestic as the moon but is never appreciated more than the sun,
The same dream pulls her out of these endless nights. These same tears always dot around her eyes. How she wished that was a true reality. How she wish she could remember if it is.
Confectioneries span the edge of the town where the sun stays there as it sets. Out a hundred more she would wish that her own was of the most beautiful, that the sweets would make the stars like trotplin led, like LSD, because she’d rather take it than be sane; because she would rather become trapped as Marey Marey than become the devil, because she would rather eviscerate the thoughtless notion in her head that industries and heroes and bards are stuff of dreams more than her own fantasies, and at least a fantasy has the opportunity to be written, appreciated, and revealed; but that there will only be luster in this world, a world with so much sugar, but a world without a sweet. Her name sounds like banging drums in a tree where foals fall from hanging mares and scream—and drumsticks are stuff of dreams, because that dream would have no longer existed, that there would have been no more picnics and sandwiches; that there would be no more talks on the bench, blank flanks and laughing foals, that there would be no more Griffonvale; that there would be no more visits to the confectionery in the edge where the sun is dying more than it is arising and that the visits kept her warm; that there would be no more light to shine so she could see her own shadow; that there would be no scalpel no gentle touch of another heart to open up her own; that there will be no lemons; because there will be no more life; that the final day in a two-months spectrum she will open the door and that there will be no door; because there will no longer be a door in heart that would be as welcoming as it is sweet; because she would not have opened that door to a sound; because there would have been no more letter: because she would not have opened the door to her cold heart for a stranger, a stranger who she and her would’ve loved each other, who would have been friends, because there would have not have been something, something else, something like feeling, something like tears.
Still; you see the sun rising in the edge of the town. This town is filled, with so much color, so much life... so much, stories... happy stories... sad stories... with tragedic endings, both triumphant, both hopeless, but also believing, but also faithful... Because as long as there will still be ponies, that the end may not catch up to us yet... So for as long as there are still ponies: there is still a heart, that the heart may beat well.
Like death; a solemn ending to the life of his loved one. He stands by the casket, in this holy night. His dark-blue mane is disheveled and flutters about in the warmest of all kinds of winds like a crazy blow-up pantomime. He reflects; but there is no water to reflect at; there is no mirror to look into but here the gravestone lies in all its lonesome. He understands what that feels like. It feels like moving forward, and he is standing still. Sit down, and look up at the stars that spiral around like dandelion cottons in the evening sky. Broken down like molded plastics and flung about like a careless drunken frenzy. But such a beautiful frenzy; that even the legacy had caught up to the old actors, that black and white tapes died off before horsemen could redeem you to the edge of the seems; her voice, her voice, one thing more immortal than the song; her voice, had always been, will always be, always be so beautiful, it was not the voice; the words were so beautiful up to the end: that there would be no end to this voice, because this voice was frozen forever in a song; that the song was frozen forever in time; that time was not frozen forever in thought, that his own thoughts were not frozen about in this time, but rather constantly moving on: a straight line of a gesture like the pole-racers have barricaded the east and west of his eyes and this was tunnel-vision, once more. Such a beautiful voice that filled his and their life to the end. He sits down in the soil; the same soil from the same place they had first met where flowers were predominant in his mind like she was an enchantress Poison Ivy. But, he is hardly alone. He, and she... are three ponies who are looking down at this grave... That she looks down to the grave. Nuzzles up to him, like a foal. And asks him; if he misses her.
And he tells her,
“Yes.”
In almost a fowl screech
In almost a high-pitched shriek
Tears.
Fall...
As heavy as hail...
Unto the skull...
He will take his hoof around her, and she, and she would take her muzzle around his, and she will do nothing but feel safe, and they will look back up into the stars, and they will stare up forevermore into the stars. Where the life will go on, where the song will not yet stop, where in a Fallout Stranding Beach, we are all still connected, where there are heroes, and heroes that still play, where in the faraway ocean, there will sound the Belles.
Because music last forever. No, not everything has an end. Somethings are taken to the graves beyond the graves; Firmaments; logic; divinity; time; beyond chaos; song; and that will always be; and that will always; always; always; always will be, something more. She takes her own hooves out in front of her, and crosses her eyes. Maybe that way she would see the back-half of Somepony, leaning into her forelimbs, ignoring them as she adores them, embracing her as she evades them, like a ghost, like a dead ghost, that in her hooves, will not only always be this short end of the flute; saliva drips from the muzzle. She has to coax herself to sleep every night with a harmless and a familiar song to drive away the midnight demons that she pretends is no longer being sung by herself. Every night the sun rises when she falls asleep and every day the night rises, and when she wakes up there is no scent of milk and muffin, and tells her that there is no more use in trying to move on. And tells her that there is no more use in trying to move on. She will succumb. Hanging on the precipice of the under-shade of this giant elm oak tree. Is, just another day in her fantasy of the sun in that endless horizon of hills and mountains and ends of ponies.
Hearts? What is there such thing as a heart? Why can’t she feel her own can’t feel her own beating inside her anymore? That the heart must have been tied in a vascular system of mutualism, that they would be connected like a Landline. When it is already beyond the age of telephones, of timberwolves on sleds, of express mail. Because strabismus can take the eyes... but cannot the heart inside. Because, it was almost like a private pure heaven. Even if the world around them and beyond bleeding to an internal kind of hell; because they had each other. Because they had loved each other. That hatred had always been vanquished at the sight of each other’s smiles and the feeling of forelimbs in warm, hot cocoa hugs. There was always the last straw to not take on and sip the pleasures and the hell on a mock chalice that the world had given them. Because they used that straw to tie once more the lose strings interconnecting like ancient electricity wires in the vascular systems of their hearts! and it had been their only shield!! that wouldn’t have there been some more time? that wouldn’t have there been a second chance. One last last sorry. One last arrivederci. One, last... she... can’t bring up the spirit to say those three words... b-because... s-she, is afr-fraid... that she will succumb to it all again...
One more double-take of a stranger in the sight of her face... One more chance to decide the words to fill each other needs to justify why they exist... One more thank-you and leaving out the door to holler her back like a Ebeneighzer Scrooge-turn-around at the dying heart of a fading confectionery that had never happened at all... One last sparkle in her eyes as she aligns them straight down. One last smile, to awe as the mailmare had new package. One last clap of her hooves, one last cheering on, last tell-tale of eyes that told her she had all the world, all the world in the soles of her hooves, just one last audience, just one last demand for an encore...
Just one last moment to appreciate that all of these memories are still anew...
That her dreams have already been fulfilled, and yet are still hungry...
That she would still find herself gawking at the sight of the emptiness in this house at the middle of the obscurity; when the only color that was ever there to begin with was nothing as bland as stone graves...
She would always understand that there is truly more to life than just holding on. That there is always something beyond holding on, letting go, forgetting, honoring. Singing notes in the middle of this park yard where the rest of old mares and stallions became dust again, and chess-games and voiceless threnodies had once loved them enough for what they did; and will never love them again. A winter-shade of a tear drop splatters on the soil; the fertile ground tells you: there is a reason to not hold on, to not let go, to not forget, to not honor, but to have all of them in at the same time, because love is a death to oneself and a birth to a new self; because love is a painful arrow and a soft marshmallow being roasted slowly over a friend-filled bonfire. She looks at her own Hooves. And she realizes, she understands. There is no more need to imagine. Because there will always be in her hooves the same exact flute that will rust and corrode and soon wear out, but will never die before the last of its song, but will never die before the last of all of its beautiful song, the last of all its song; it’s beautiful song, had all, sung, out...
That there will always be, that love in that last bedtime melody...
Because she had never lost anypony...
Because that Somepony...
had never, lost her...
There is no such thing as anything permanent.
Change is like a flatsound song. Close your eyes: your heartbeat goes bum bum bum. And you will soon, fall into sleep; where you realize, you are wrong, where there will be no dreams; where you could live by the beach, you could act like it’s the end of the world; because the mirror gave you a panic attack in the bathroom, that you are the coffin, you look into them: into your own hooves; they were an artist's hands
Calloused from building walls and
Skin covered in clay that cracked as it dried
but they are hooves; and only forevermore will of the same kind will always forget you, and that you will never anymore remember to experience what it is like to have the balance of being held; because you had to write: don’t forget: on your forelimbs; when you were drunk, and you had forgotten anyways. Like everything we saw that day and how you made me feel. A mad pony is soaring, soaring high. You couldn’t remember that when you were old, when you and your best furry friend dropped down and died. That there was no belief that they’d like me when I’m sick. Because lately I’ve been feeling tired of everyone I know.
...Look at me, look at me, look at me, look at me
Look at me, look at me, look at me, look at me
Because I exist, I exist, I exist, I exist, I exist, I exist...
You sing.
And there is an audience.
And the audience is looking at you.
And the audience is listening to you.
And the audience is pleading.
...Is a wonderful kind of applause
In that deafening silence
you asked why you were special for a reason
asked if you could still call you a snowflake
and what goes in your mind is
And you said okay
You said okay
You said okay
In the absence of everything, I promise to keep you warm.
Because you are so special, so precious, and this world would be a lot less worth enjoying if you chose to leave it.
Because nothing good comes from being gone.
Maybe, maybe there was more to everything than a song. Maybe there was never a need for an encore. Maybe the universe never began with a song. That there was something that gave birth to song? Whoever are you to ask the question to why the universe works this way? Why there is pain on one side and joy in the other like the difference of heaven and hell and the abyss in between; and that nopony can cross over to the next side and to one another; that some ponies will be born forever in one of the two sides; that either life; is a curse; is nothing but a curse; but is still and forever will be still a life. Who are you to think philosophy is understanding and that understanding is the key to acceptance when there will forever be things you will never and you were never meant to understand, because you are not special enough to understand it; when there will be things you will never be able to accept, and too, so many things that will never be able to accept you. And who are you to stand in the middle of that and question the laws of the Stone. That the insignificance of every action that you do is not one speck greater than the first minute of a dwarf star’s mere existence. Because the moment your song begins to waft along the air
it dies out
and it expires.
But that... maybe... maybe... maybe life is all just fine that way... maybe there was never a need to understand or to accept or to agree... maybe there was only the need to believe in something that was greater than yourself to understand the reason why you cannot understand... that forever will the question linger in your mind to why nopony looks at you or likes you, when you’ve only wanted them to be happy, so that you can be happy. Maybe there was something even more melodious than only just a song. the song may have been your life; that it may have meant something for even a single frame of a time, forgotten or lost; that maybe there was this thing, this thing is called love; because it gave birth to all things; to too many things; to death; to hate; to pain; to curse; to sadness; to break-hope; to ignorance. To you.
But at least; that will all just but return, back, and in the end of it all, mean: that in the root of all these, there is something greater, something more profound, something bigger than life, something that you do not need to hold on to, because that something will always hold onto you. That Hoofcraft would say that belief will have only become the strongest emotion that ponykind will feel. That the strongest kind of belief; would always be the belief in something that you understand. And maybe that is just the reason why you couldn’t had ever even once understand. That in all the times you were forced to believe, after being forced to lose hope; that you were forced to lose hope, after you had become strong enough to believe... maybe the reason why you couldn’t understand or couldn’t believe was because you couldn’t understand what was beyond the song... that you only needed, to believe... maybe the reason why you couldn’t believe was because death was a guard dog and an escort to your own sepulcher... But that was hardly the case in the meaning of things, in the schemes of all things, in reality that pervades reality, in the fiction that pervades fantasy. There is Love.
Everything began with Love.
Because song is only it’s testament.
Is scorn, is agony, is hatred.
It’s time to open your eyes one last time and look at the jester prancing in front of you. That life preserved had lead to discovery had lead to love. That she had been born into a trinity of more heroes. And their bards would have always begun with you.
Time to look at the schemes of things in the everlasting growth of a home you had always been cared in. That nopony looked at you, and scorned. Where everybody treated you like a stranger. But where everybody had treated you like a stranger, like a stranger that they still loved. Love goes back between the Mare and Daughter and gives birth to a love that will flourish forever in this wonderful town; in this ordinary town where a heart is in a street Helper, in a Construction Worker, in a Gardener, in an Angel, in a Sweet and Airy couple, in a Broken, but Living Family, in the remnants of an old Boutique, in a beautiful and brimming and chirping Cottage, in another season of another Fall, in another Wrap-Up for another Winter, in another Applebuck season, in a filly who has learned that her Spirit, will always Fly higher than the world, in another potion understood by nopony, but concocted, and Loved, after all, in a lisping Friend, in a redemption of Silver and Tiara, in a Love of a late Mother and an aspiring Daughter, in a Father with a Cloud, in a Confectionery in the middle of the town where the longing of Somepony returns to resting in the peace that there is what preludes a Song,; in the ending of a Mourn, but the chorus of a Long, but within the everlasting bridge of a Love. In the heart of a Baker, of a Prankster, of a Laughter, of a Crying, of a hiding, but Loving, and Loved, and not always understood, but forever Accepted: Jester, and a Pony.
How forever will all of these hearts, and lost dreams, and wilted youths, and laughed-at age, and newfound hope; in a far away school, in an amazing Teacher. In a Castle, in a Swell-Hoodie-Digging Soul, In a Protégée, in a Helper, in a Friend, in a Foalhood Friend. How ever will all of these souls ever cease to remember your name...?
How ever kind of power, kind of power of devil or hatred, will be able to remove the bond that you had given to them with all of your heart?
Because there no such thing as anything permanent, because life is not ruled by forgetfulness, because forgetfulness cannot happen unless there is memory, because memory is the epitome of life. Close your eyes, and go to sleep.
Hush Now, Quiet Now.
There is nothing anymore to be afraid of.
It is not over.
It is not beginning.
It is not restarting. It is continuing. A song does not have an infinite amount of choruses, but there will always be an infinite amount of song, and beyond death; in the Firmaments; in Hell; in beyond; there will always been an infinite amount of voices.
CLOSE your eyes and go to sleep. Hush Now, Quiet Now. There is a Jester that prances in front of you, she is crying, and she is telling you it is okay, it is okay, to not be okay, because there is still another day, and if not, there is still time to love this moment: and She is there to make you happy, and to make you happy; and to remember, and not only to remember; but to discover, to realize: to a realize that there is still more. That there will always be more. That song does not begin in the lips, and it does not end in the ears. To discover, to understand, to believe.
To be.
At peace.
Again...
To be.
Free again...
Because to be free is the one thing that you would have wanted and what you still want...
Now is the time to be free... the Jester is no longer mangled, because the forelimbs have returned with their ability to ovate and to applaud, because the knees have returned in the hindlimb: because it has found the meaning again to its own heart, so that you can jump, so you can cease to jump, so you can cease being the mad pony, so that you can cease to move on from this world unhappy, because you had found Love, so that you can prostrate, so that Firmaments will be shaken, so you can love, and be, Loved.
Because Love is the only thing that is permanent...
Because the end is coming, and everypony will remember you.
And before the Encore.
And they will all sing. And they will all say
Lyra.
Lyra Heartstrings.
Author's Note
Additional quotes in the comments.
They were an artist's hands
Calloused from building walls and
Skin covered in clay that cracked as it dried.
Flatsound — Hands
Oh, I try to make everyone happy
But what about
What about me?
Is it too much to ask
Is it too much of a chore?
For someone to stick around unlike everyone before
Everyone before
Abbey Glover — Please Don’t Go
Skirts, God bless you, I love you.
