Truly the underlying nature of a morning did not so much relieve a unicorn from his or her natural slumber as a dragon would hoard gems or as a manticore would attack people, that is to say it does not always do so but it could be the result therein of that action, but were such a creature or even a pegasus, earth pony or really any other species—no—yes—possibly—such were the indecisions, the contradictory no and yes being a major part, that made up Twilight Sparkle’s morn as it were; her thoughts cried yes once they were through with the contradiction and her body cried no, creating another contradiction—her body seemed to be at war with itself both without knowing and without realizing that it was beating itself into an oblivion, of which no mortal could understand—Twilight Sparkle stood up, not as an immortal being but not knowing that her aging process was rapidly coming—all she could think about was waking up no finding her way out no she was already awake and she didn’t want out of her grimy confines of which hadn’t been cleaned in ages find her way yes finding her way spiritually was judged as the best plan of action—oh dear, she was all alone, no her mind cried, it was not alone, just merely absent in physical form whereas her mind and coeur as it were still felt a sense of togetherness that she had felt ever since the physical form had died—not death—yes, it is death but not in the same sense she had been used to—more contractions, but her body did not try and fight it this time.
Thoughts streamed to the stairs—one step at a time—tumble oh dear, that’ll leave a mark—pain, such that cannot be overridden by sheer willpower, and so the throbbing continued and left the other pain at bay for mere moments of time—but in no time the throbbing was gone and the real throbbing continued; purple was an awful colour, wasn’t it; there was a brief moment of indecision but then purple was judged to be a wonderful colour that merely overstayed its welcome and had to leave Equestria prematurely—does that mean she will be gone—no—does that mean she might be gone—possibly, since the mortality of a pony varies from individual to individual and being an alicorn made no difference really; immortality was such an interesting topic, but that scaly dragon in my head deserves a wave for he truly deserves it and he even waved back, what a great thing to promise something love when it can’t give love back, but oh it was fine because there was a proper excuse for the unrequited and completely platonic love—not that there was no romantic love, but it was the wrong creature with a horn that could offer that unrequited love, truly, and its colour was as colourless as the sky is blue.
No drinking was necessary for it would just make things worse—or better—more contradictions plagued a sound mind as a weed would an unprotected garden; the neighbour’s purple garden, which had clearly had overstayed its welcome, gave no proper wards against that terrible, terrible weed—oh, such heavy burden that is the terrible weed that decided it should take over the garden with total prejudice against such creatures—the morning sun was a damper on the day, really, as it meant others would be happy on this most happy of days—but her happiness was truly above all others, because while others coped with the physical form, she dealt with the mental form that still rested in her coeur and would remain in her coeur for all time, even after the great colour of purple or possibly the great colours of orange, blue, silver, etc were all shuffled off of this coil that the overstayed purple could not bear any longer.
Cramps pain misery—so much so—unbearably so—but no longer present after a few careful steps, truly it was not something to think about for extended periods of time, but what it was not was an excuse to stop and smell the flowers that reminded her of the contradictions, and therefore the colours, and therefore the overstayed purple—what a silly notion it is to walk while thinking of nothing, what a completely nonsensical, ludicrous, absurd idea that one would even consider undertaking such an act—truly, she was crazy, or no she was the most intelligent being in this land of non-intellects and she should never regard herself as anything beneath what she truly is—a deity, albeit a deity with a longing for a colour purple that has given itself contradictions far too many times that day.
A foolish mare—that masculinity—no, she was clearly wrong, but yet she was quite possibly right—the foolish thing voiced some sort of concern or praise or other but the act of ‘leave me alone’ turned into a frown and whatever masculinity was present turned into a vapor and returned as a whimper much like a newborn filly’s would be were it to be subject to intense displeasure just as though its colour had overstayed its welcome and shuffled off into a mental form as opposed to the physical form it had grown so very accustomed to—so many comparisons—so many—comparisons to contradictions—is this how geniuses think in their spare time, well it would seem so with comparisons and contradictions and comparisons of comparisons and contradictions being processed through her mind like hamsters to a hamster wheel or the pen and the pen utilizer to the virgin paper that bled itself with words of incomprehensible intellect—how pretentious of them to believe such words would work to further them on some non-existent pedestal, quite the contrary; well, it seemed like that at first, but it turns out that they are at the top of the pedestal; how quaint; how nonsensical.
The virgin paper was far from its initial state but the ones operating the print procedure allowed certain words that wound not to excite, pleasure or amuse a particular individual of whom many contradictions and such were made that day; nevertheless, the paper held a column—what a terrible column it was—oh, what a terrible, terrible column it was to make yet another mark on all others who mimicked their profession by departing and calling them such blasphemous titles as “uneducated” and “beings of indescribable stupidity, so much so that it is unbearable to feed them their clearly superior knowledge of literature and everything associated therewith” that did less heighten themselves on a higher plateau but did do more disappoint the eager populace that so awaited the “superior”—clearly not—mayhaps inferior even to the smallest sea slugs at their silly reactions—writers to continue their works that may or may not have excited them in a community-driven effort to create works based off of something someone else has done—surely they cannot ride off of something that the general populace gave them and expect to leave while calling them terrible and get away from it.
The pain—torment—everything, and so little—subsided soon, as colour was the last thing on her mind—quickly the paper was disregarded and the paper came back, and was soon discarded and the colour came to mind, causing much grief and—goodness, the overanalyzation would one day end her for sure, but first it was hoped that the foolish individuals practicing and exercising their metaphorical literary muscles would fall to that cruel, cruel hammer which would be less so cruel and moreso beneficial for the general populace should such a tool fall on their heads; mayhaps those sad heaps that, as a chain link fence is to a penitentiary, acts as the corral that keeps their self-indulgent, undoubtable minds at bay so as to prevent their own corrupting weeds from infecting the masses of gardens that lay possibly untouched and possibly already or nearly or even so closely that they are aware of it as plagued.
Speech was done; paper was completed; the only idle thought that could still plague my—my, we, her, his, it is a mystery truly who could be analyzing us at any given moment, so long as it doesn’t involve the self-indulgences currently manning the corral of which should not keep them very long—could be attributed to a great many things, but flying no magic no what could it be that plagued her mind, she did not know—truly, the only remedy for such a thing was what she had been doing every time she saw that bright ball of thing—mystical, no, scientifical, maybe—and indescribable mass that saluted her just as the uncorrupted garden had done so oft and now lay as a mental thought and form instead of the physical form she had gotten so used to.
Such, such were the days where the overarching thought process of a particular garden did not need to rely on the thought processes of other gardens—corrupted or no did not make a difference—wait, it most certainly did—hark, this endless contradiction with herself—himself—it caused even more harm than whatever good—what good, she truly wondered, what good, honestly—it could give to her slightly uncorrupted garden that had been untouched when another such garden had been in a similar state—had her mind drifted and thought of such things in the yesteryear, she wondered, but to no avail as those thoughts fluctuated far too oft to even be considered for a few moments at the bare minimum—sleep was impossible, and the floating mass of thing was nearly done its thought process, if it had a thought process, but is inaccessible, incorruptible and undecipherable to anyone who had the ought power to do so, but was there any purpose in doing such a thing, the purple—purple was not a good colour, she judged—decided.
The day in her life had been that much less purple since it had been several days before, and her physical form remained the same—gardens were an afterthought, or at least they should have been before both colour and gardens were considered dull and removed from everyday life.