//------------------------------//
// 819 (so I don't forget) 
// Story: Book 1 - The Behemoth came to Canterlot 
// by Equimorto 
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Shivering. Shivering cold and sweating and head spinning, time too fast too slow and couldn't tell, and at times time passed and couldn't notice. Tired but unable to fall asleep. Hurting from a need but no results when trying to satisfy. Everything dull. Everything wrong. Unable to stand. Hard to breathe.
There were moments of clarity. Rare and sparse and never enough, never quite enough, never really there. Never enough to focus, really. Never enough to do something, anything, what she wished to do, what she needed to do. Trudging on. Through the day like a puppet in a play. Jumpy. Nervous. Irritable. Cold.
Something done. Not enough, never enough, but enough for her brain to trick itself into thinking it was enough. Enough to take a break and come back, when, what, how, why? Pain in her chest. New. There, gone. There again. Too hot.
Nonsense. Head filled with so much nonsense, not enough strength to order it. So much noise, could only listen. Void calling but still out of reach. Pain. She'd had pain. Pain again. Just wait. Just hope.
Forgetting. Forgetting to remember, forgetting forgetfulness. Remembering forgetting. Remembering, then searching. Sometimes finding.
Distracted again.
Talking. Lots of talking. Too much talking. Too much to answer to, in that state, in that moment, all too much. Too much to do. Apologies. Emotion. So complicated. Always.
Time. Gone, disappeared, and running thin. No time to think, barely time to act. Act what, act how, poison. Words coming, words going. Words elsewhere. Love, friendship, family. Misery. Dragons. Words flowing. Thoughts running faster than they could be caught, flowing like water, screaming unheard. No meaning, no reason, barely bridled in a facade of sense and order. So much to do, so little time.
Changelings. What was it like to be a changeling? What was it like to be a fly on a wall, a bug on a stick, a worm in the soil, a fish in the water, a bird in the sky? What was it like not to think? Much like she was, at times, those times. But different. Different as as she went on unthinking she knew she was supposed to think. Different as she knew it was she knew herself she knew things were would be different.
No mail.
Heart. Still beating in her chest. Was her heartbeat much different from anyone else's? So behind, so late, so much time. Words still words, filling space, forgetting again.
What else? What more? Why and where and what and when and maybe it was best to just stop. Just stop. Let it end as it ended. Just sleep. How much could she do in the time she had in the conditions she was in in the state her mind was in the state her body was still pushing still forward still more and another stretch and more and tomorrow again and why and why not and why happening, then, there, unfair.
Maybe a little. Maybe day by day. Maybe tomorrow, maybe today. Maybe yesterday even one day, again, like ereyesterday or further back again, back and forth, up and down, cold and hot both at the same time when the clock struck when the clock reach she would go she would stop she would drop it.
Words flowing, thoughts crawling on the back of mind like spiders, like ghosts, like corpses unearthed she hadn't had time for she didn't have time for she wouldn't have time for sickness she would not be able to. Why then? Why there? Other things she would other times she would. Promises unfulfilled. Different things. Things could have been different. Forgot again. A good line, a good lead, forgot again.
Why was it all so hard? Why why why.
Remembered. She was not herself. She was someone else. She was what and why and then and pain, and none. And things and stuff and actions, action, not her, wrong, not hers, not done. Had she ever been herself? Had she ever been? All along all a dream? Why so long waiting, and forgetting?
A little longer. A little longer she'd gone on. A little longer things had gone and were going and would go.