GREEN
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2855 16.17 KB 337
2855 16.17 KB 337
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>Outside of the window, the scenery of the world rolls by.
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>How long has it been that way?
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>There’s no measurement of time, so…
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>Don’t know.
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>That’s a common answer.
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>But even if there was a different one, the lack of care would nullify it.
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>Idle thoughts passing, that’s what this is.
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>They’re a stray cat in the mind; coming and going, never know if, or when they’ll ever return.
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>They provide some kind of minor distraction, though.
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>Because there’s a weight, otherwise.
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>It has a name.
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>Failure.
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>That hasn’t lost its luster since it first came about.
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>Thinking about it should be avoided, however.
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>Such a near-impossible task.
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>An age could pass.
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>A second could, too.
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>Regardless, it would remain, having left its mark at one point or another, like a blip in the grand scale of history.
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>That sounds almost poetic, perhaps even philosophical.
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>The former is more enticing, more true.
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>Poetry is expression given written or spoken form.
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>Maybe it can be turned to in-
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>No.
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>Not here, not now.
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>The passenger car is too open.
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>It doesn’t have to be filled to the brim, either.
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>Even one pony could see, which would feed into certain thoughts and feelings.
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>And it would take that one to have interest.
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>That creates a chance of a meeting.
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>A meeting leads to talking.
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>Talking leads to trouble.
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>It’s a cycle that starts and ends the same.
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>It’s bad enough that it took everything to do this initial trip to the city, and it’s made worse by having to talk at any point.
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>Now, returning back, that itself is more terrible than when it began.
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>The sole solace had was from the lack of needing to talk, which ensured less attention was given.
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>So, incurring even one more moment of that, that itself is not a want or a need, least it feeds into further failure.
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>Too much thinking about this kind of stuff.
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>That’s a problem.
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>Music is turned to, offering a distraction; desperately holding it like a rope to safety.
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>It’s the savior in these war-torn lands.
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>It plays.
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>The sound comes through earbuds, silent to all but one.
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>You.
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>Things are free in that time.
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>But, during lulls, in between songs, and along the roads of thought, the audible click-clack of train tracks bleed through.
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>Murmurs of passengers fall in that line; all attempting to pop this fragile bubble.
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>Although both are brief, they’re still there, patiently waiting, like a predator stalking its prey for the right moment to strike in an instant.
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>The music drowns this beast though, at least for a time.
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>It makes it easy to forget.
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>Faces.
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>Places.
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>Names.
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>Banes.
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>Everything and nothing all at once.
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>It fades into the background, much like the details lost in passing scenery.
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>This is perhaps the closest to serenity achievable.
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>That itself cannot be reached, despite appearing otherwise.
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>An illusion, that’s what it is.
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>Like a mirage of an oasis in the desert seen by a parched traveler.
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>The truth is harsh, as always.
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>Furthermore, the truth has been an ever-present constant part of your life.
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>Alienation, loneliness, rejection, and more – they all exist, having purposes that were crafted by truth.
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>They live on, in spite of the contrary spoken, said, or read.
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>Life stays that way.
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>A soft, tired sigh escapes from between your lips.
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>There’s a pause in the songs.
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>It’s filled with a familiar pain.
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>Absence does not make this heart fonder…
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>It yearns.
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>It aches.
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>But it can never have what it wants.
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>Eyes shut, turning the world away into utter darkness.
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>Nothing to see, nothing to hurt.
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>Not as much, at least.
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>The next song starts, led by fast paced guitars.
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>The whole of it cuts down the weeds growing in the gardens of the mind.
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>Although harsh and swift, it does its job better than most could.
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>~I’m going down, going down~
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>~deeper than inside~
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>Somewhere close, a strong murmur comes about.
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>It’s ignored unconsciously.
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>~the world is my fuse~
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>~and once inside, I’m gonna tear~
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>Once again, the same murmur, even stronger.
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>It holds a clarity, though not quite understood, but gaining a hold.
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>~’till there’s nothing left to-
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>A sudden nudge pops the fragile bubble, ripping you back into the cold, honest world.
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>An emptiness cries out in the choir.
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>It’s an old tune, nothing new.
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>You cut your music.
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>The cause to all of this is seated in front of you – a stallion, a green unicorn stallion.
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>A pair of thick black rim glasses sit on the bridge of his muzzle, and he’s wearing a red flannel, along with a yellow scarf around his thin neck.
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>An underlying feeling of simultaneous familiarity and annoyance stirs.
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>Those are nothing, just passing thoughts.
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>What’s important is that he wants something.
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>That’s a problem.
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>Talking cannot be avoided, though could be.
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>That won’t happen because you’re weak; caving in easily to any kind of pressure.
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>Every ounce of social skill is summoned.
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>Needless to say, that isn’t much.
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“H-hi.”
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>Still a mess of a mare.
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>“Hello, I was wondering what you were listening to,” he asks, nodding towards the cd player nestled in your lap. “It sounds pretty harsh, but I was too curious not to know what it is.”
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>That’s what this is all about?
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>Just answer him.
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“It’s uh, emo, I guess.”
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>His brow knits together, “What, really? That doesn’t sound at all like emo.”
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>This is about to become complicated, isn’t it?
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>Don’t think.
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>Speak.
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“’unno what to tell you.”
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>Use better words next time…
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>He shakes his head slowly as he adjusts himself into sitting up straight.
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>What is he about to-
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>“Emo is soft, not harsh and heavy.” A smile draws itself across his lips, “The vocals are filled with love and loss; playful guitars and beautiful rhythms.”
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>O… kay.
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>This is different, not a good kind of different, though.
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>Question: when does a “good” different ever come your way?
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>Don’t answer that.
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>This whole thing is likely some kind of joke at your expense.
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>Paranoia.
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>But it’s not as though it is incorrect at times.
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>Any sound, logical pony would have dropped the conservation with that, or even rationalized it differently.
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>None of that is what you would ever do.
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“I, uhm… I don’t know what you’re listening to, but it doesn’t sound like emo.”
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>He scoffs.
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>“No, you’re the one that’s wrong. Whatever you’re listening to is not emo. The more I think about it, the more it sounds problematic, if I’m being honest.”
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>Problematic? What does that even mean?
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>It sounds like something a brain dead zombie made up.
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>Well, if the horseshoe fits…
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>End this conversation.
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>You half-shrug.
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“I just listen to emo.”
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>He pulls out a fancy cd player from his flannel.
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>An earbud is presented to you in his magic, with look on his face similar to how a parent sees a foal.
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>“I’ll show you what /real/ emo sounds like.”
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>This is EXACTLY why talking is bad.
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>No way out.
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>Indulge him, he’ll leave afterwords.
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>Correction: he /may/ leave.
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>Failure is what you’re good at, so…
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>You put in the earbud, and in turn, he starts the music.
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>Soft, twinkly guitars start, along with steady drum beats, followed by even softer vocals.
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>This sounds familiar.
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>Hard to place where, though.
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>But it’s not bad.
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>The singing takes a sudden turn to a whiny, heavily nasally tone.
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>All the instruments become upbeat, and especially poppy.
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>In that moment, a knee-jerk reaction threatens to take hold.
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>It’s resisted, albeit, with great difficulty.
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>That itself is solely due to not wanting to cause a scene.
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>The attention of the stallion is bad, but more ponies would make it all the more awful.
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>To help in that effort, the lyrics are focused on.
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>Mistake.
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>These are somehow more terrible than the garbage you usually scribble.
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>There are many words to describe the entirety of this music.
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>None of them are pleasant.
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>Hours seem to slip by while listening.
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>A song will close, another will begin, but it’s always in an unnatural, unwelcome kind of follow-up.
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>Unlike the pseudo-peace given by your tunes, this does anything but that.
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>An eon is passing.
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>It’s happening because of stupidity – you’re /very/ stupid.
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>Always a stupid filly…
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>But eventually, tolerance reaches its limits.
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>The exact number of songs listened to is unknown, but regardless, after one ends, you pull out the earbud, still holding onto what little composure left.
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>The stallion’s smile has turned toothy, “See? That’s what /real/ emo sounds like.”
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>Don’t ever do something like this again.
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>Unlikely to happen, idiot.
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>He sits proud as can be, still looking at you.
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>“Now do you understand what I was trying to tell you?”
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>Oh there’s an understanding…
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>A feeling of deja vu washes in with that thought.
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>Although it may be a different time, a different place, this is reminiscent of a first meeting.
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>With who, though?
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>Here’s a hint: the answer is in the mirror.
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>A mirror? What is- oh.
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>The style isn’t close, and the sex is wrong, but the feeling is the same.
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>Kitkat.
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>A poser, answers an old part of yourself.
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>“I take it that you really loved it, I know that I love it, too.”
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>He’s mistaken.
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>There was NO love felt for any of those songs; however many there were.
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>That old part of yourself gains strength.
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>Rather than speaking, a shrug is given as a response.
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>Silence falls, to which you shift your attention to your cd player.
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>*ahem*
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>Looking up, he’s staring, harder than before.
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>Why?
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>Because he’s waiting.
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>On-?
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>“Is that a yes, or a no?” he shakes his head. “I mean, it is /real/ emo, after all. Not at all like that vile garbage you were listening to earlier.”
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>He can’t read a face, can he?
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>You blink, feeling a deep frown come on.
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>No, you do not want to talk any further.
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>It’s clear he refuses to understand that.
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>So, you shrug again.
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>His entire demeanor deflates almost immediately, with his smile turning ugly.
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>That expression appears to fit him to a T.
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>A flicker of amusement stirs within at that.
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>“Why are you being so difficult? All you’ve gotta do is agree with me, because I am right.”
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>That flicker died.
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>There’s still no desire to speak, though.
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>Another shrug is given in return.
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>Foals do that, so do socially inept ponies.
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>Don’t care.
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>He loudly sighs as he shakes his head, his smile vanishing altogether, now replaced a hint of disgust.
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>“I should have known that you’d be one of /those/ ponies who don’t understand real music or culture. It’s especially bad when it’s presented to them by a kind stranger.” He rolls his eyes, “Your raggy looks should have been enough of a sign of that.”
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>An insult.
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>Nothing new.
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>They all leave a mark; physical or mental.
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>Heat floods into your cheeks.
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>Your ears droop to the sides of your head.
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>Bravado fades.
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>The end has come.
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>At least, that should be the case in a normal situation.
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>It isn’t.
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>He’s still here.
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>You are, too.
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>His mouth is moving, spewing word after word.
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>Insulting.
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>Belittling.
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>Twisting.
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>All of that is directed at you.
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>It’s suffering, lasting long and longer, stretching into an eternity.
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>A pained starts to spread from within.
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>A tightness grows in your chest.
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>The whole car gradually turns smaller.
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>You yourself turn even tinier.
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>Heat spreads from your cheeks to your eyes.
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>But there’s no looking away from this, no shutting it out.
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>Something is breaking.
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>Yet…
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>It’s different.
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>It’s breaking free, not being destroyed.
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>It’s old.
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>It’s waited.
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>Now, it’s time for it come out.
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“Sh-shut up…”
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>“What?” he says with a few rapid blinks.
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“Shut up!”
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>No more.
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“Who are you to insult and harass me?!”
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>He opens his mouth.
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>No.
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“What you played wasn’t even emo, it couldn’t ever hope to be. It’s like somepony heard the twinkly guitars once in a song, but never learned more than that /exact/ rhythm, then applied no further brain cells to it.”
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>Don’t stop.
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“There was no hint of being genuine at all throughout any of those songs. Then, as if that weren’t enough, the singer could not sing if his life depended on it. And finally, those lyrics were incredibly immature, and not in a sense of a foal; they lacked any semblance of refinement that gives way to a confessional, if not, poetic-like quality.”
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>Warm, wet streams crawl down your cheeks.
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>The peak is about to be reached.
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“You have NO right to be telling me, let alone, anypony else what’s wrong, you-you… creep!”
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>Your heart thuds against your chest in heavy thunder.
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>You take deep, labored breaths.
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>Flames lick every centimeter of your being.
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>It’s been /far/ too long since anything like this was let out.
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>And honestly, it feels REALLY good.
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>Any care or fear is absent…
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>...for all of ten seconds.
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>In their return, an ice cold wave rolls throughout your core, traveling outward in a painful, near-retching manner.
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>The stallion stares all the while, wide eye and slack-jawed.
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>Everything is frozen stiff.
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>Silence hangs.
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>There’s a wait – seen and unseen – for the end result.
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>It could be verbal, maybe a physical one.
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>Perhaps it’s something unimaginable.
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>Not a word is uttered.
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>Nor a hoof is swung.
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>Instead, a very unstallion-like huff escapes him.
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>He gets up, leaving in a hurry into the next car, stomping all the while like a bratty foal would.
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>Once gone, threads unravel.
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>That starts with you.
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>Hot, wet tears have created numerous streams on your face.
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>A war of fire and ice cascades throughout your coat.
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>There’s no need to look or listen.
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>Eyes are watching.
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>Ears are hearing.
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>Tongues and teeth are speaking.
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>A nightmare given form.
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>Into a little ball you go, like the scared little filly you are.
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>Eyes shut, but fail to hide what’s there.
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>Ears are clamped down, yet cannot deafen the voices.
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>Turn it all away…
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>Make it stop…
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>Please-
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>There’s a distant whistle that cuts in.
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>The motion of the car feels like it’s slowing.
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>You peek out of an eye.
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>Through blurred sight, a pony in uniform is standing at the car door.
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>Oh no…
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>Actions have consequences.
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>“...station. If this your stop, then please, get your things ready for departure.”
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>What was that?
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>Your mind pieces things together.
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>Looking towards the window, it’s blurry, but the world outside has certainly slowed.
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>Wiping the tears away, there’s details outside coming in.
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>Familiar bits of scenery are recognized.
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>An end to eternity.
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>But a new mark was made before that could arrive.
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>Ponies are still here.
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>They’re turned away, dwelling in their circles.
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>That doesn’t stop the talking.
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>Nor does it deny what’s being said.
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>You focus on your belongings as a distraction.
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>A single suitcase, holding a few changes of clothes, bits, pen and notebook, along with a number of… books.
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>Ignore that last part.
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>The old hoodie you’re wearing offers a minor comfort, in addition to the cd player.
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>Despite knowing better, everything else is gone through again, and again.
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>It’s a small lie in the form of a distraction, but it has offered leeway.
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>Tears have ceased.
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>Heat has lessened, as has the cold.
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>In their wake, things have become uncomfortably numb.
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>Nothing to do, nothing to think, there’s just waiting.
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>Eventually, the train draws to a complete stop.
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>One by one, some passengers leave.
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>You’re among the last to depart.
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>Looks are thrown your way, ears are, too.
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>Words are spoken; some soft, some loud.
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>All of that itched alongside the other marks of your mind; unconscious and conscious.
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>Upon entering the station platform, there’s a brief respite from that.
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>The light of day shines bright, though it could never shine enough for the right path to take.
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>The air is heavy, yet breathable.
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>With a slow start, steady steps lead away from it all.
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>The weight of the scene is added onto the weight of the failure.
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>It’s too much, unable to be ignored anymore.
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>Every publisher in Trottiingham rejected your book.
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>Too dark.
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>Too gloomy.
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>Too upsetting.
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>Too much of too much.
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>Different things said, but they might as well be identical.
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>It’s just failure with a different shade of paint.
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>An eternity will pass before it lessens, and will take just as long to have the courage to seek out another publisher.
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>Until then, here you are, trudging along the dirt road to home.
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon