• Published 26th Jul 2015
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The Things Tavi Says - shortskirtsandexplosions



Let me tell you a few things about my roommate, Octavia. After all, she saved my life.

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Deathly Things

Author's Note:

Death is turquoise.

I found this out shortly after fate acquainted me with my... well... with my "gifts," and I've failed to lose sight of it ever since.

I believe it was at a funeral when the color first dawned on me. We were attending the wake for Octavia's ill-fated cousin, and a cloud of turquoise hung over the open coffin, devouring up the tans and blues and ambers from the mourning crowd in attendance.

It was later that I realized that I'd seen the color before. On long walks along the far end of Ponyville, I had spotted it. Hovering. Looming above the gravestones of the dearly departed. Turquoise loves to linger along the edges of cemeteries, hospitals, and the occasional run-down motel where I have to room while traveling on a lengthy tour.

It's a very passive color. Like a shadow, it clings to all of us. I normally don't sense it, because the green hum of the world drowns it out. But when night falls, and the world practices for death through sleep, I see it resonating beneath us all, behind every corner.

It's not even very melodic, really. There's no bass vibrations to it, no underlying tonal quality. Sometimes, I think it's not even a sound—not that it matters. I've long come to realize that my eyes and ears are sensitive to something that extends far beyond the limits of noise. Something deep inside me was irrecoverably changed, and I am forever in tune with the harmonies of this wild, chaotic domain.

I think this is why—perhaps—the tall, crystalline castle belonging to Princess Twilight is an all-absorbing black to me. I've experienced the same monochromia when wandering past the Royal Sisters' Palace in Canterlot. The least harmonic thing in this world is Harmony itself. It's a black mechanism, a dagger that slices necessary swaths across the cosmos in order to force chaos into hiding. I don't detest it, but I am a bit afraid of it. Power is black and impervious, as it should be.

But the only color that breaks through it is turquoise, though it doesn't do so maliciously. Like dust, it settles all over the spires of Twilight's castle. As I go on nightly walks, I see it, twinkling from the bowers, forming tiny soundless songs against the obsidian frame. Give it enough millennia, and I'm certain that it would melt away even the most harmonious of tools our culture clings to in solidarity.

I believe this because of what I see and what I hear, and I'm struggling with the greatest quest in my natural-born life—which is to be at peace with it.

Because when all is silent, and the rest of the world withdraws into its sleepy shells, and even the stars above have receded from their interstellar chorus as they're doing right now beyond the windows of my bedroom...

...the only thing that encompasses... the only aura that fills the gaps—the voids between voids—is turquoise. And it is a beautiful, mindless drift, carrying us all somewhere and nowhere at once.

Knowing this, I can't truly feel sorrowful about anything. The universe was over long before it began. I'm here to make music, and I think I feel another masterpiece blossoming in my mind.

Perhaps I'll compose in my dreams.

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