Chapters Looking around, Memo realized that he was sitting in Sugarcube Corner. He didn't remember entering the store but quickly sunk back into his chair, accepting the situation. Memo somberly leaned over his notebook, laying peacefully on the table in front of him. He had read, and re-read his past notes countless times, and it had become more of a habit to look back at what he once thought rather than an actual practice. Despite a mysterious pounding headache and slightly blurred vision brought on from what he recalled to be a recent, and rather heated argument, Memo submitted to routine and opened his notebook once again.
A Book Where I Write Down Ideas
"Real thoughtful." He mused to himself, the bold title resting in the top margin of his notebook. After a brief moment, Memo sighed and read on.
Thinking about doing woodworking, It's pretty natural for me to do something with my hooves. Also working on finding a job.
The part about working with his hooves was true enough, being an earth pony, he felt much more comfortable being grounded and doing simple, independent tasks. He could never imagine what it would be like to work in a magic powered factory like the ones in Coltiana, or the weather factory in Cloudsdale. Sure, mass production was the future, but he still preferred the personality one could put into a hoof-made piece.
Wait a day before making any purchases. If it can't wait a day, it's most likely an impulsive buy and therefore not worth it.
Leaving sagely advise was not usually his thing, but Memo did have to enforce some strict rules on himself to carefully ration off the small bank of bits he had left.
Imagine an artist that draws streets. It'd be like the worlds first, unadulterated street artist.
Memo snorted at the concept, and continued reading.
I wanna make windows with a layer of water or salt water in them to diffuse the light as it passes through and give rooms a rippling effect.
He had actually experimented with that one once. Unfortunately the water expands when frozen and has a nasty habit of cracking the glass around it. Maybe a good idea in theory, but not very practical.
I wish I had talent like that purple mare, I hear she's Celestia's personal student. Maybe I should write her a letter and see if she wants to go on a date? Should probably work on my penmanship before considering it.
As far as penmanship was concerned, not much had changed. Despite the name, Memo's hoof-writing hasn't improved a bit since he was a little colt. As for Twilight, she was way out of his league now. After saving his hometown of Ponyville several times, she and her friends had become celebrity. None of them, especially Rainbow Fast would be seen with a nobody like him.
Maybe one day, when he was rich and famous, he would approach them with unmatched charisma and guile. Maybe one day he would sweep that quirky, amethyst mare right off her feet. Her multicolored mane would flow gently through the air as she gasped softly at his forward actions. He would lean over her and look deep into her lavender eyes, as if trying to smell the hint of the flowers off of them. He would show her that he was worthy of her presence.
Maybe one day.
After catching himself daydreaming, and blushing slightly. Memo returned his eyes, and subsequently his mind, back towards the pages in front of him.
It'd be cool if I could get to the point where I'd be able to make 10-minute accurate sketches of things, Especially portraits.
Another fantasy come and gone. It didn't take Memo long to realize that he had little to no artistic talent, so he moved on to other things.
I think it's stupid that I have to work so hard to get a job I won't enjoy and buy things that I won't even have the time or energy to fully enjoy.
Work was always a touchy subject for Memo. The few jobs he did have were very physically and mentally draining and payed very little. Being low on bits however, he forced himself to work tirelessly day after day to just make ends meet. No wonder he felt so strongly about it back then.
After stressful events, I like to do low stress activities to help relax. Slowly but surely, those low stress activities start to bring up stressful memories, and are no longer low stress. I'm afraid that things I love doing - passions of mine - will become too stressful and overbearing for me to do in a practical manner.
And with that, Memo's headache came back in full force. He recalled the recent argument he had completely forgotten, or perhaps completely ignored as the pain in his head refused to subside.
It was about his Father, it was always about his Father. The huge, toxic ink stain on an otherwise orderly page. Slowly spreading to completely obliterate written letters. Letters arranged precariously into words. Words arranged into profound sentences used to portray emotion and opinions. Everything Memo was, his entire being, was being corrupted by that stain.
Feeling a wave of inspiration, Memo turned to a blank page in his notebook, and began to write.
Author's Note
As you may have noticed I'm not much of a writer. Apart from stories and papers I had to write for school this is my first and only fictional piece so please throw any advice, recommendations, and critique my way. Don't worry about sugar coating it, I want to know the truth.
Memo woke with a start. Last he remembered he was in Sugarcube Corner writing down his thoughts, but after taking a brief moment to soak in his surroundings, he concluded that he was sitting rather uncomfortably on a park bench.
Memo stretched, and massaged his sore neck while quietly thanking his subconscious for being above falling asleep on the floor. After taking a minute or so to ease his sore muscles, Memo shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position to sit in.
After accepting that no such position would come to him, Memo settled to simply lay across the bench as he spied his old notebook laying on the ground nearby. The cheap paper cover stared back at him intently, as if trying to coax him into picking it up. He happily obliged, wiping some dirt off the back of it before raising the notebook onto the empty space in front of him.
Memo frowned slightly as he noticed some of the pages were becoming ruffled. "Serves me right for buying the cheap ones." he muttered to himself, turning to the first page of the book.
A Familiar title greeted him.
A Book Where I Write Down Ideas
"Real original." Memo chuckled to himself. After a brief moment, Memo sighed and read on.
After skimming past the first couple of entries something caught Memo's eye and stopped him in his tracks.
After stressful events, I like to do low stress activities to help relax. Slowly but surely, those low stress activities start to bring up stressful memories, and are no longer low stress. I'm afraid that things I love doing - passions of mine - will become too stressful and overbearing for me to do in a practical manner.
"That's rather silly." He mused, a small grin forming on his muzzle.
"If I'm really passionate about something, no amount of initial stress should be able to ruin it for me."
Opting not to think too much into it, Memo read on to the next entry.
It's hard to look forward to social interaction when your honest opinion seems to make other ponies angry. I'm being completely logical, why is that so hard to understand?
Memo couldn't help but feel a little nostalgic. He used to be so stubborn at times.
Memo looked further down the page and noticed a rather long passage. Unable to contain his curiosity, he began reading.
Overall it's been a pretty bad day. I've accomplished very close to nothing - apart from reading several library books. I'm starting to seriously question why I started using this notebook, as if I have anything worth writing down. I think I need somepony to help me out of this slump.
Memo traced a hoof over the page of his notebook. He couldn't imagine not being able to re-read things he once thought so strongly of. Without those memories, he felt as though a large piece of himself would be missing.
If he could appreciate his notes now, he could only imagine what an older, wiser Memo would say about them years from now.
Memo abruptly returned his attention to the notebook in front of him.
Mom won't help, she'd only make things worse for me. I can tell she's more than sick of me, the only reason she kept me around as long as she did was because I could cook better food than her. I know I need a push, but from who? Nobody I know has the time or motivation to really offer me something like that. Everything I've picked up has lead to a dead end and I'm sick of wasting my time and the time of others when I already know how things will end up.
Maybe I need a mare in my life. An equal, somepony I can pour my time into. Somepony I can genuinely care about. Somepony who can talk about the most mundane things imaginable and still manage to captivate and inspire me. Yeah, now that I think about it, I'd like that. But things are never really that simple are they? At least they don't seem like it for me...
My life feels like a living embodiment of Murphy's Law. Does that make me a willing Guinea Pig? Perhaps I was bred for this? Never destined to see what was outside of the transparent walls around me, but instead, born to die.
What does it mean when even in my fantasies, my dreams don't come true? What hope is there when even my subconscious can't see the light at the end of the tunnel? Is it time for me to pack up my proverbial life and move on? All I have left is the long buried dream of me meeting a potential love that most likely doesn't even know who I am.
Truth be told, I have potential. However, anyone who's taken a simple equestrian science course can tell you about gravitational potential energy. In order for me to have any energy, I must first be at a point far enough from the core of the planet that it tries to pull me back into it, forcing me to fall back into it's clutches.
Nothing has begun for me, this is no potential energy for me to use up. So here I am, below rock-bottom, spinning rapidly with the earth's core, being crushed by the heat and pressure of those around me. Given enough time, who knows? Maybe I'll emerge a resilient diamond? Maybe one day I'll shine and people will want to grow up to be just like me.
Maybe one day.
But not today.
Something wasn't right. Memo knew he wasn't okay, but was stuck with an overwhelming sense of dread before he could act.
Memo's head pounded and throat went dry, as large beads of sweat began to form all over his body.
Panic overwhelmed Memo as his heart sped up, kicking him relentlessly in his chest.
Am I having a heart attack? I feel like my hearts going to burst out of my ch- "Ak!"
Memo was unable to finish his thoughts as a sharp jolt of pain arced through his body, causing him to choke on air.
Memo forced his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to block out some of the pain, but was met with worse pain as his other senses heightened.
Memo clenched his jaws shut, trying to block out a growing pain in his head as he curled up into a ball and held himself.
He could feel hoofsteps, there had to be somepony nearby, it was the middle of the day and there should have been plenty of couples going for walks.
Before he could even think to call out for help, the park seemed to fade away as Memo's vision faded to black.
Author's Note
I'm keeping a theme of shorter chapters so it's easier to backtrack and reread. Next chapter hopefully wont be so boring, but I'm trying to pace things evenly.
Memo was an almost ordinary pony. He sported a white coat with a dark blue mane and tail. His eyes were grayish blue, the kind of color the sky gets after a long storm starts to subside and the clouds begin to say their goodbyes. Memo looked rather ordinary, but It wasn't his physique that made him almost ordinary, it was his mind.
To understand Memo's thinking, one would have to know a little about Memo himself.
Memo grew up living both sides of the monetary spectrum. While very young he knew wealth, and was spoiled with gifts and affection from family friends and his parents. After a few years, however, the luxuries started to disappear. In their place came hand-me-downs. Broken toys, board games with missing pieces, Unwanted personal artifacts. Things that people once held dear, but instantly threw away once they no longer resembled their original selves. Things that Memo now felt inclined to love, and did his very best to appreciate.
It wasn't long before the lack of money caused the inevitable split of his parents. At the time, Memo didn't understand why his father was no longer around, and was too young to remember the finer details. Despite all of the lingering questions, he accepted the change best he could. But it was never quite enough, He always felt he needed more.
Many years passed and now Memo was almost an adult. He watched his closest friends become successful in finding their passions. Some found expertise in art, proudly adorning palettes and paint brush cutie marks on their flanks. Others had more physical alternatives - A flaming hoofball, a pair of ice skates, and parachute-shaped marks to name a few. Memo however, never quite found his calling. Despite doing what felt right, Memo never discovered his true talent, it was as if the cosmos wanted nothing more than to mock him. His gleaming white fur - comparable to Celestia's - still shone bare, like a pedestal with a glass case, encompassing absolutely nothing.
Memo had come to terms with the possibility that he may never find his true talent, but in the midst of things decided to take up writing down some of his thoughts with the mentality that one day he may look back upon them and finally realize his true calling.
The following passages are Memo's very scattered thoughts.
Author's Note
I'm not sure how far I'll take this story. It's actually rather personal so I think I'll see how people react to it before considering writing another chapter.
