the enormity of my desire disgusts me; secondchances pony

[garbage]

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,  With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,  And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; Rebirth has messed with his perception of time. He’d say only days had passed, but in reality it was weeks – months, maybe. He isn’t quite sure. Time is like an image glanced from far away, blurred and indistinct, able to make out the shape of things but not its features. He isn’t sure what’s transpired in those days – he ate and slept and moved, wandered as he is so wont to do. And now he’s back in the meadow and he doesn’t know where she’s gone, if she has left him or perhaps he’s left her. (No. He would never do such a thing. He is not the one who leaves.)   Regardless – he is alone. Such a common state for him – fitting, really – but it gnaws at him like a winter chill, the loneliness. He stares at all the passes faces, hoping for something – someone – familiar, but they are all strangers. He is older than so many of them, but he doesn’t look it – not in this new body, this reborn thing, black as an oil-slick and in the peak of health. His mind, though – it’s full of holes and wisps of memory, of strange and ugly things that have happened to him and that he’s done to others. None of them are fully formed, they are often as hazy and indistinct as his perception of time, if not more so, but they persist in nightmares and at the corners of his vision. Ghosts and demons.   He wonders if his radiates from him, the loneliness. Like a fever. It doesn’t matter, not really – he doesn’t have much in the way of self-preservation. So he moves, careless of how he appears, and he finds himself back in the meadow – his home, as much as anything is his home. Yet there is nothing for him here. Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;  I never saw a brute I hated so;  He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

@[SecondChances]

[Deep Sea Gears]

The fifteen hand high bay tobiano made his way through the meadow. He was on the search for something but wasn't sure just what he was looking for. Gears spotted a figure in the distance and wandered whether or no to approach the other. He took in a deep breath and called out before he approached the stallion. He smiled at the black colored stallion and said "Hello sir. My name is Deep Sea Gears but please call me Gear. May I ask for your name?" His blue eyes took in the others appearance and smiled softly to himself.


@[garbage] Hope this is okay

[garbage]

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; It takes him a moment to stir from his melancholy. He moves slowly sometimes, as if underwater (another memory, that, the feeling of sand beneath his hooves, the crash of waves, a burn of long-gone seawater at the back of his throat). He blinks, shakes his head, as if his memories were tangible things that could be reset by something so simple as motion. It doesn’t work, of course, but it moves him back into action. He eyes the tobiano stallion with curiosity, notes his wings and their strange angle – broken, then. He wonders if he was born that way or if it was an accident. (He knows the noise of bones breaking. It’s a theme in nightmares. Skulls cracking, orange eyes rolling on the sand.) He himself had been traitless, or presumed himself so, until he died and came back, until his new and impossible existence. He still has no word for it, what had happened - why it had happened. He smiles, polite, dips his head to the other stallion. “Hello, Gear. My name is Garbage,” he says. Uncomfortable with the silence – or perhaps simply desperate for company – he continues on. “Do you live in the meadow?” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

[Deep Sea Gears]

Gears wandered if he had startled the stallion when he had approached him and if he did he didn't mean to. The tobiano stallion could feel the stallions eyes on his wings. Yes he was born with broken wings and he envied those who could fly. He felt like the wings that adorned him was useless. He smiled at the other sadly and said "Its a pleasure meeting you Garbage. Yes I do indeed live here in the meadow. What brings you to the meadow?" He was curious about the other stallion who stood before him.

@[garbage]

[garbage]

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; He doesn’t know if he has a good answer to the man’s question. He came here – came back – because it’s the only place he really knows, the only thing that feels remotely like home. There have been other homes – once, so long ago, it was the desert (so briefly, that, he does not recall specifics but only the warmth of sahara-hot sun on his back), and then the meadow, and another place, a nameless land, and back here, and so on and so on – And back. And back. Always back. It doesn’t feel like home, not really. Just a place his hooves know. A place that is familiar and rife with memories – some of which he recalls. Some of which he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. “I’ve lived here, off and on,” he says, “I seem to keep finding myself back here.” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain.