Life was boring. So essential and mundane had each day become. It was, as simply as a scholar can put it, time to die.
Twilight stood, as it were, aghast and frightful; her hooves idling in uneasy tremors. There were books strewn about. They encased Twilight in some sick tomb of twisted, dark pharaoh who had, as she had, gone completely mad. The only noise in the vacant and alveolate library was the unbearable racket of silence. Perhaps, or as reason to the silence was the god-awful emptiness of the tree. The tree that mocked Twilight each day with its jabbing hollowness. It was a sad, sad irony; that darkly amused the violet pony. The only thing hollower than the tree was her.
Twilight breathed in. A stale, frequent scent washed over her. It wrapped around her in queer familiarity. It was that damn smell. Banal and commonplace. Each day it went unchanging. It always was there, just as Twilight was; routine in its existence. It was the smell of books. God, it was always the smell of those damn books. They sat soulless in front of her chiding and dancing in complete stillness. They were no longer of importance.
Twilight looked down. The ground seemed miles away, yet only a stool separated Twilight from the cold, killing floor. Twilight felt almost queasy as if her body and mind were separating, with pleasure, from each other.
Twilight tightened to coarse, rope noose around her neck. It was uncomfortable, but it did not matter. Twilight let in another huge breath. She could taste the smell of the books. Old and dusty, they were to her. It was that damn smell that always got her. It stung. She reached up to defend her nose from the mind-altering stench and almost lost her balance on the stool. She leaned forward; flopping like a fish on a sand bar; and regained power over gravity. The rope noose tugged lightly on her neck. It was her lover; lightly nibbling upon her; beckoning her to let go.
Twilight slammed her hooves over her nose. That goddamn stink just wouldn't go away. She pressed and pressed; fruitlessly. The world felt a shrinking place to her. The open air of the tree-library began panging in her ears with unbearable caricature. Her skin started to crawl. Everything was warping in her mind. Damnit, damnit, damnit. It was too much.
"STOP!" Twilight howled. She felt alone against her surroundings.
"I don't want to do this any fucking more." Her words were powerful enough to invoke even the most prolific of speakers.
"There is no time. No time at all. I just want to be loved. I just want to be happy. . ." Twilight stopped her words.
It was hard to be happy or to even fake it, when each day brought nothing new. It was caustic.
Twilight looked, like a frightened sheep, towards the ground. It still seemed infinitesimally far away. Twilight looked at the noose around her neck. Knotted and carrion. All she had to do was lean forward and all the placid normality would disappear. All this everything that repulsed her, though not haphazardly, would be away.
Twilight closed her eyes. It was but a single tear that squandered aimlessly down her cheek. There was no occasion for which this tear was shed. Except everything.
Twilight took a step forward. The dullness of the tree-house chanted repetitiously. So empty, so dead. Twilight, at last, slipped herself off of the stool. The rope noose tightened around her neck once again like a familiar, passionate lover; intimately kissing her, giving her what she wanted. Sweet release. For an instance so slight, Twilight jerked about; fighting what the splintery rope was giving her. Soon, though, she gave way to her inhibitions.
She was welcoming death. Such arrogance in death; yet so wise it seemed. Twilight saw lights; so vivid and beautiful. She smelled hints of carnation and daisy. She heard the harmonious sounds of a hundred orchestras playing some perfect tune. And then nothing.