When I do gaze upon the two hands circling the teller of time, my senses are dulled by a depriving realization. This world, galaxy, universe and everything beyond the stars of the Milky Way, are not forever.
The passing of time is swift. It is one thing that never loses the faith given to it by us mortals, like death and internal affairs it is one thing to count on. Many say me and Celestia are to last to the end of time itself, till entropy, that ravenous hungry beast, devours all which inhabit this inherently odd reality. But they know little of the nature of the beast. Our end comes when it comes, all we can do is silently march towards it. But the inevitable is not the conclusion of some being’s decision, whether or not life or existence came to be at all it would happen regardless. And what, when reality comes to an end? When my moon falls from the sky in disgraced discharge and the star of my sister fizzles to a dull husk, what next? It is a question needing no answer, the following events are of no concern. If all were to permanently cease there would be no time. No passing to measure how long, in which case the cessation of everything cannot be said to have happened and until a new spark ignites the end never existed just as nothing existed to have begun with. With moments in this world going forward bestowing an unrecognizable illusion of time, one starts to imagine, to remember before. How things might have gone differently. How maybe somewhere there exists a plane of reality in which an alternate chain of events occurred each one enacted by unique versions of one’s consciousness. How maybe in the prelude to death there once was a younger soul, no longer, the poison of time sapping strength with unrelenting precedence. In dreams I see, ponies die and live, are born as fast as others fall away, generations of new to replace the old in nature’s cruel cycle. There is no defence against time, when its scythe comes to reap no opposing power can defeat it. To save oneself there is only the ability to conceive, to pass down a part of oneself so that even till the fires of doomsday time has not scored a complete conquest.
This mood of negative conjuring is not well-received by those who cannot understand. It is to be kept away and supressed, not enough words exist to adequately explain. It is that clock of time which reminds me of such harrowing things. I must not look at it.
Never again.