Rest for a while, and then rest some more, when you are ready, take that step out the door.
Walk around the block, and then walk one more, remember your path back to the door.
Is it the same?

Happy Filthy Friday~.

We have a new story today, though not new in the traditional sense, it was made for the Twisted Fate pony vore artpack a year ago, but now it is freely available, so posting it publicly~.

~ ~

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Once I thought I could overpower nature, that I could fight the tides, and bring ruin to the typhoon, that I with my own determination could bend the sea and carve the path of the moon. Though with every year, with every month, every day, my grasp falters, and nature stands as tall: the snake coils around me, choking.
But I still clutch my dagger...

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Wayward soul who seeks solace, find your way to me, find your way through cold and sorrows, find your way to me. Find your way through dreadful waters, find your way to me.
Find the path that few have tread, find your way to me. Find your way through your own strength, find your way to me. Find companions to share the journey, find your way to me.
And if your weary bones should waiver, find your way to thé.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

It arrived on my doorstep a few nights ago. I have yet to touch it, yet to acknowledge. It is easier for me to let it lie, let all take its course, to step around the threshold when I am needed outside. Or, to simply stay home, to stay away from the world it came from. Perhaps it is best to leave it be.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Reclined, relaxed, with the world floating by outside the window, the safety of dullness, of oblivious meandering through thoughtscapes and mirage. Lacking in excitement, though one is cursed to live in interesting time.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

We trap ourselves in a cycle, it goes commitment, that reaches deep into the night, and to then rest the brief amount of time I have, to wake up and realise there is more commitment. At which point, instinct delays it, and becomes pushed forward, down the day, into the afternoon. And then work begins again....

Happy Filthy Friday~.

As storm clouds loom ahead, I upon my bed, and knit a pouch or sorrows, to carry for tomorrow. I line the piping in dread, and thread the warp with fear, and once the pouch is woven, I wash it out with tears.
Come bright morrow I step outside, bag of mine in hand,
It is filled with bright thoughts and fantasies, I carry across the land.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

I look upon the fruit's grandeur: its shell vibrant with a scintilla sheen of its hues. Within housing pods of nourishing, supple syrup. Each pod holds a seed, the intended recipient of the fruit's benefits. Were it not for the seed, there would be no fruit, were it not for the seed, there would be no plant. And yet here I stand, holding the fruit, claimed for my own. What right do I have to it? Other than that which I attributed to myself.
And yet, I am playing right into the tree's trap.

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Sometimes I just want to bake bread. What kind? One I can knead, one which I can force all the thoughts and distresses of the day to day into, one that not only is capable of taking the force, but will grow from it, will mature and develop until it is presentable. I strive to do the same.
One day I will develop gluten.

Happy Filthy Friday~.