Equestrian Fantasy

I open my eyes, and I am in a house.

The house is in Equestria, and it belongs to me; I am a human who lives in Equestria. I am standing in the front room, and am facing the front door. There is a set of windows on the front wall, which faces west, one on either side of the door, both open: nice windows, with clean frames and working latches. The thin lavender drapes are shut, but cracks of light shine through gaps created by the light breeze and illuminate bits of dust in the room. It is still early in the day.

Beside one of the windows are a small square table, with a oil lamp, and a stool. On many mornings before today, I have spent time sitting on that stool beside that open window, sipping coffee with elbows planted on that table, and watching things go on outside my window while enjoying the clean purity of the springtime air from the comfort of my home. And many nights I've stayed up reading by the combined light of my lamp and the stars. That's one thing I haven't quite been able to let go of yet: the attachment to privacy and personal space I learned on Earth, though it's mostly useless here, is a habit I still retain. And routine is something I find it hard to do without, too.

In the center of the room is a low, polished wooden coffee table with rounded legs, which sits on a dark green egg-shaped rug. Surrounding the coffee table on three sides are large floor cushions for sitting. To my right is a fireplace, with a dutch oven beside, and a stack of firewood is bound along the wall. The fireplace is raised up from the floor atop a tiered platform which is part of the room's construction. Mounted above the fireplace, framed in bronze and sealed under crystal, is the centerpiece of the room—my list of promises.

I will not return to Earth.

I will serve the Princess loyally.

I will not have sex with a pony.

In this unfamiliar world of difference and danger, magic and mysticism, my freedom is all I truly own, and my choices are what determine me. That is why I hang my promises in the center of my living room, where anyone I invite into my home can see for themselves who I am. Besides, given a new start, where no definite expectations have been laid on you yet because no one knows just who or what you are, you find you can do a lot of things that didn't seem possible back home.

Across from the fireplace, my living room opens into a pantry, with an icebox and cabinets for storing food. The final wall of my living room is lined with a bookshelf and opens into a hall. The bookshelf is large but fairly empty; the few books it contains are gifts I've received since my arrival here, and trinkets like empty vases and seashells decorate the remainder. I enjoy thinking about gifts I've received, as gratitude, I've found, is a wonderful emotion.

The hall is narrow, and for now, empty. Besides a lavatory and a bedroom, I also have a small closet. But there's nothing for me in any of them at the moment. I put on my shoes and go outside.