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.
I step out from the secure self-enclosure of my Equestrian home, and the morning sun rewards me with a blurry, spotted vision of beauty.
I live atop a hill in the rolling plains outside the city of Marathon. It is springtime, and a patchwork blanket of wild green plants punctuated by deciduous trees and highlighted with streaks of yellow and white flowers unfolds below me and stretches to the horizon. The grassy scent in the wind is invigorating; a challenge to live worthily and bear the fruit of goodness. Birds' whistles and trills force me to smile.
It's always hard, at a moment when you're overwhelmed by the presence of goodness in the world, and imagine that the gratitude you ought to feel toward the beauty of the universe would be life-changing if only you could be honest and consistent enough to allow yourself to embrace it—it's hard to accept your own limitations at such times, and not become depressed at the prospect of so much wonder washing over you ineffectually, like a storm of purifying rain draining harmlessly off of a rooftop and down the gutters into the dirt, leaving the inside of the house unaffected and dry as ever.
I notice a pair of bees servicing a flowering vine that has snaked itself partway up a wall of my home. The bees remind me of one of the friends I've made since coming to Equestria: a beekeeper, a gorgeous gold-and-orange mare with cascading tiers of mane and tail hair that would have equally well suited a hellenistic Greek lady. I recall the work I've done for her in the past, and think of the work I am headed out to do today.
I think I can say without any reservations that, if there is a heaven, there will be work for humans to do there. There's something about work, something about directing your body, mind, and will together towards a single, unified, good purpose, that fulfills a need deep within the human spirit. For it's very difficult to put yourself wholeheartedly into some physical, skilled work and at the same time be stingy, nurture petty grudges, worry yourself needlessly about the future, or get depressing ideas. Ideas that you are spiritually separated from everyone else in a way that makes you radically alone in the universe. Ideas that you, as imperfect and vice-ridden as you are, are still generally better than most everyone else in the world. No, a day of hard work gives the lie to those and many other mischievous temptations, and afterwards at night, your sleep is sound and dreamless.
At least, that's how I see it. I feel that I can see a lot of things now that I had passed over when I was on Earth. But the spectre of the rising sun in Equestria, that great illuminative work of steadfast love that the Princess gives us all from her bounty of strength every day, has a certain magical way of casting old ideas in a new, transformative light.