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02/29/12(Wed)00:48 No.291558
File: 1330494482.jpg-(26 KB, 307x247, Octavia.jpg)
 >As the sun set, Kimberlite Pie struck a match. She touched it to a single fat candle on a foal-sized boulder in the middle of the darkened cabin. A web of wax trails from a hundred such candles was strewn across the boulder's surface.
>Her husband, a simple brown earth pony, called his daughters from their schoolwork. "Hush, fillies," he said with his permanently neutral expression, "And harken ye to the stone. Thou too, grandmother." The six of them gathered around the rock, and closed their eyes.
>Pinkamina sighed, and joined them in their rhythmic breathing. Deep, slow breaths. In, out, pause. In, out, pause.
>Her purple sister said that she could feel the rock as Father described. It felt sturdy, secure, strong, and steady. To be the rock was to be of the earth. She loved the rock farm, and never wanted to leave it. She said rocks never smiled, and to be attuned was to give up frivolous smiling for unity with the stones.
>Her grey sister said that on certain days, she could feel the rhythm of the whole world beneath her, a deep and soothing sound below what the ears could hear. She said that if she could capture that sensation somehow, she could communicate it to other ponies, those who never felt the earth because they were too busy, too loud.
>Pinkamina wished she could feel the stone. No matter how she tried to clear her mind, it was the one thing she couldn't feel. She could feel imbalance; she could tell when something was about to fall, when a door would open, and even when bees would swarm. But she couldn't feel a stone simply being. |
