My eyes dart around.
All of the vocals sound the same.
All of the colors have blended.
I'm sinking in a cyan sea and I can't tell where the shore is.
These ballads once had beginnings and endings to them...
...now they are vomitous splotches without borders, retroactively fecal and pointless.
What am I doing?
Corpses should be left as corpses.
I'm no musician. I'm a butcher.
Who in their right mind would want to parade this garbage on stage?
It is nothing more than self-absorbed recursive nothingness.
It sprang from emptiness and all it does is spread the same nothing. A blue-coated nothing that only holds significance for me, and even that is a stretch.
It's been far too long...
Far too long to make a masterpiece out of this misery.
What was I thinking?
And to drag Capricorn into this as well?
I'm terrible.
I'm pathetic.
I'm burdening another pony... just like I did with Tavi.
And none of us are going anywhere.
This is a mess...
A horrible, abominable, cataclysmic train wreck.
Another failure—like all of my failures stacked up beforehand.
Who am I to think I could climb out of such a hole?
It's far too late to make magic out of mayhem. I stand on a mountain of ashes. I should have known I was far too lazy to turn it into something spectacular. I've waited too long... wasted too much time...
These crystalline recordings...
...they're so fragile...
... ... their leylines are so flimsy...
... ... ...all it would take is a simple shove, a toss, a hoof-throw to do the right thing...
I could rid this world of every piece of my failure.
I could just disappear into obscurity. Nopony would have to know any better. Nopony does know any better.
Certainly not Tavi...
... ...Tavi...
... ... ...where you are, and wherever you've gone, the very last thing you need from me is another failed attempt to breathe life into the lifeless.
What both you and I have needed all this time is the opportunity to wake up from our pointless, worthless dreams.
So here's to that... the lucidity... the cold, sweaty reality between the ballads.
All it takes is just a simple shove.
I can smash these tracks and disappear.
Destroy it all and vanish.
So very easy...
...please... just finish it...
... ... don't be a coward...
... ... ...I can make the jump... I could make the jump...
I...
Don't you do it
aw hell no
Are you truly so heartless, Skirts?
And right back into the depression. Yeah, just needed to be reminded that this is a Skirts fic.
GOD DAMN IT SKIRTS, WE WANTED A HAPPY ENDING!!!
Just artist things.
don't
just freaking don't
Aaaand we're back!
Uh-oh.
Depression, clinical depression, is a nightmare for those who have to live with it. Some days, just getting up... just imagining that anyone wants you alive is essentially impossible.
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But of course!
Skirts is like an inverse, mirror-universe changeling: he thrives on despair, consumes sadness, and gorges on depression, and washes the whole lot down with litres of brony tears.
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And then there are the "Less" voices:
"Worthless."
"Useless."
"Hopeless."
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The worst for me was always that empty feeling in the morning. Laying in bed, too tired to get up, too broken to go back to sleep, When you can't even cry anymore, because the Sadness and the anger and the self loathing has all turned into a bottomless void of Nothing. And that's what you feel like, Empty, hollow, nothing.
I don't think... I'll be getting a happy ending. *thinks of several other stories of Skirts I have read*
Oi oi oi oi.
NIce chappie.