tirsdag 22. september 2015

Butterflies, snow and ash.

So, I was at work. Well, it was between shifts. Didn’t sleep much.
Thought about my special somepony.
Life intertwines. People die. People fall in love.
Life goes on. Moves on. Half a life.

What do we chase?
What’s the sound?

Life. Such a small, fickle thing. Precious, even.
Didn’t really expect it to come to this. Although, prediction isn’t my strongest suit. Proved that again and again, haven’t I?

The ability to change and to shape the happenings around oneself is something we all do – some more than others, of course. Direct, indirect… Cause and effect.  But to end up with the desired result, that’s another story. That’s different.

Do you want my bagel?
Trucking to be picked up. Strong, confident women.
I wonder what the flowers think of us.

Being part of the Wasteland leaves one to think about certain issues. Do people who change from one gender to the next, do they tend to keep their preferences before the transition? Even as girls chase boys chase girls (or the other way around), the partner(s) we seek tells us something about ourselves. I’d like to think myself in a platonic relationship with a lovely, wonderful person. My previous drive for sexual encounters and lust for deeply sated needs as a submissive seems oddly absent. And yet I feel I’ve arrived at the point where I can stay loyal to one person and doing the best to make it work even if all evidence proves me differently. Perhaps it’s because this body isn’t something I enjoy letting others take a closer look at. It’s not shyness – I’ve got no problem changing clothes and display skin in a setting where this is required. However, when given the option, I tend to robe myself in these days. I’m not ashamed. I’m just uncomfortable. Capital, isn’t it?

Relationships are hard. Friends, family, lovers, special someponies… the list goes on.

Many of the trees were my friends. Now they’re no longer here.
The cutting of trees usually leaves me morose with a hanged head hung low for my own race.
Ah, it's hard to take pride in human history.

The aid and aim of my current search drives me slowly forward to accepting that I’m not special. Strange, that may be. Incomprehensible, sure. But not any more special than any other being. The realization of this epiphany isn’t haunting. Ghastly, perhaps, but not Gastly or Haunter.

I’m stuck in my own little time. Glad I’m not going to live forever. As a vampire uttered: “The world changes. We do not. Therein lies the irony that kills us.” And people still don’t get while I prefer werewolves over frozen stagnation...
C'mon, shapeshifter isn't a big enough clue?

True to the Santiago sense of trouble and mischievous sentiment Littlepip would be proud.
Even Fallout: Equestria.

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