This is a story that no one will read. Because the story, like me, has no name. No title. With no title, one can’t discern what could possibly take place in this story. For them, the journey into such a story will be akin to that of one into the deepest of unknowns. Strange, disturbing, and full of uncertainty. Much like how life is.
While there is no true risk involved in the reading of words on a page, the things that one can discover and learn about the world around them can forever alter how they see themselves. They might be changed, on a certain level. For better, or for worse; that cannot be predicted.
But even so, it does not matter anyway. No one will read my story. No one will remember my name. I do not have one anyway.
Solitary is a word that I find best describes myself. No one has given me a name, in all of my life, and so I could not adequately associate myself with the named ponies. Every day, I stare out the window of my house, gazing upon the passing throes of named ponies. Watching them laughing, socializing, and living. So blissfully and happily ignorant.
I did not envy those ponies. No, the way that they carried themselves is nothing to admire. I had realized, long ago, how much they were being held back and imprisoned by their own identities. I knew well of what the common pony did not understand.
Image. To maintain an image for your peers is a terrible burden, I believe. If you cannot keep up with the expectations and demands of others around you, then you will either be criticized, shunned, or simply left behind. If they are feeling particularly mean about it, they’ll do all three in succession.
And thus, I was grateful for my lack of identity.
Let the named ponies have their image, I would utter through the glass. Let them be the subjects of their peers’ attention. Let them fall through when they can no longer carry water. It would not matter to me in the slightest.
Living among the named ponies wasn’t difficult. When you lack a name and identity, no one else will regard you with anything more than a passing glance. For anyone else, I am but part of the scenery. Standing in the background, forever unacknowledged.
I was okay with this. I was fine with this.
When I had first arrived in this named town, I had only been greeted once. During a surprise party. That a pink pony had thrown for me, for absolutely no reason aside from “welcome to our town”. This behaviour had confounded me to no end; what use is there to give a party to somepony that has no identity? Even at this party, it seemed clear that no one even knew who it was supposed to be for. No one except for the Pink Pony, it seemed.
But even the Pink Pony, whose true name I do not see fit to remember or even care to acknowledge, soon stopped visiting me. As soon as I noticed this, I was initially relieved that I would no longer need to wear padded gear. But something felt off about the shift in behavior. I attributed that to the fact that I had grown somewhat accustomed to these visitations, and wrote it off as nothing more than a thing I had to readjust to.
I usually made frequent ventures to the shops in the market district. The vendors, I noticed, made small talk with everypony else except me. When I chose what I was intending to buy, they simply asked for what it was worth, I hoofed over the necessary bits, and we parted without further words.
These escapades felt hollow, almost; but I did not concern myself with petty feelings. Forming bonds with ponies that I didn’t know the first thing about was not an appealing idea to me. I would not risk what so many others have before. I would not let myself suffer what pain that so many others experienced in the past.
I would remain solitary, and anonymous. A background pony. A nopony. Free of obligations. Free of image. Free of identity. I would be happy.
But why did it still hurt, deep inside?
Several months pass me by. My resolve seemed to be depleting by the day. More than once, I caught myself attempting to ignite small-talk with the named ponies. I once managed to get a few words in with the Orange Pony’s little sister, making her the first pony I could legitimately call an “acquaintance.” But before we could get too far into the conversation, she was called away by her sister.
And at the same time, I realized that I was acting against the rules I had imposed on myself.
The filly had asked me if we would talk at a later date. I did not answer her. I simply ran away, back to my home. Home? Was it my home? House, home, domicile, it does not matter what I refer to it as. I retreated to this place, not sure what I should be feeling or why. I was beyond confused.
Why did this bother me so much?
Despite my best efforts at purging these traitorous thoughts from my head, I found that I could not deny that I was deeply troubled by my lack of identity. It did not make any sense at all! Wouldn’t being a nameless pony like me make life easier to go through? Wasn’t I supposed to be free of pain, and obligation? Why were my beliefs now beginning to fall apart at the seams?
I set out on a walk, trying to clear my head. It was a chilly evening, and while I briefly considered retrieving my scarf, I decided that it was not needed. The cold air did wonders to help refresh my mind. I almost felt like myself again, alone in the streets of the town.
I almost felt happy.
Almost.
From around the next corner in the road, I heard laughter. Six ponies, one of which I recognized at the Pink Pony, came around it. From their banter, they appeared to be on the way to a party of some sort. They were talking. Laughing. Joyful.
Happiness…
It wasn’t until the Purple Pony stopped and locked eyes with me that I realized that I had been staring—quite intently—at the six of them. She blinked, nervously grinned, and turned to look away. None of the other six, not even the Piny Pony, acknowledged me in the slightest; they simply passed me right by.
Friends…
I continued on the road. Not long after I passed the town hall, I happened upon a couple out for a walk with their foal. The father, a simple-looking stallion by any regard, and the mother, an average mare, both seemed to regard the small colt between them with high levels of affection. The mother even gave her son a gentle nuzzle, signifying the bond between them.
Love…
They passed me by as well. I turned to look back at them, and stood there, watching them disappear around another corner. I found myself yearning for the touch of a gentle lover, and the company of a tender child, as well. Without it, I felt empty.
Family…
It was too late for me to realize how wrong I was. I knew that, without a name and identity, I had no life. I was alive, biologically, but was I alive? The answer had eluded me for far too long, as I have never sought to answer it. I didn’t care whether or not I was alive. I only sought to meet my own needs, and disregard all others as they had disregarded me.
With no name, I was nopony. With no identity, I was nameless. It was with this crushing realization that I realized I was never truly alive. I am less than a nopony. I am… unknown.
Could my life have turned out different, had I made the effort to pursue and shape an identity of my own? I do not doubt that it would have. Even now, after I realize that I squandered a lifetime of happiness, could I still make amends? Could I still turn it around, and restart my life? Perhaps. I don’t know. And I won’t try.
I had my chance. And I turned it away.
As far as the world is concerned, I am expendable. There are many more ponies where I came from. Where I had failed in making a difference, another could possibly succeed. Another pony could make all the difference. All they might need is a little push.
I thought this very same thought, as I discreetly approached the apple stand at the market where I had first met my first acquaintance—my first “friend”—and left a bank note with the remainder of my life savings there; I wouldn’t need it. An anonymous donation, you could say. I could hear her confusion turn to jubilation as I walked away, and I let a smile form on my face. I felt good. I felt happy.
Maybe, just maybe, it isn’t too late after all.
That’s all I can say about myself, really. I do not know why I chose to write this. Perhaps, on a subconscious level, what I am perceiving as mindless scribbling is actually—to one of a more stable mind—a desperate plea for attention? For aid? For recognition?
But no, that is impossible. I must be deluding myself again. I am already a lost cause. There is no help that can be given to a pony that was born with no identity.
And besides; no one reads a story without a title.
~END
