I am Celestia. I have many titles, but I tell myself they do not make me who I am.
I am one of two, a Princess of this world.
I have a student, Twilight Sparkle.
I have transcended death, and in doing so have become as a god.
This much I tell myself I know.
All the rest is theory. All the rest is merely the musings of an iridosmine-tipped pen, scratching incoherent ramblings on a papyrus long degraded, straining to avoid the entropy that will claim us all.
Even me.
I have resigned myself to the fact that one day I will die, that one day my tidy little world, so full of happiness, will simply cease to exist.
The brief universe we will have lived in will vanish, merely a blink in the presence of some greater order. Even a god cannot halt the machinations of this world which bore it into being, for so long as I remain of this world, I am bound to it and its laws.
This much I have accepted.
It may seem strange, a contradiction, even, to say I cannot die while acknowledging my own death, in some far-off time. But are the two so different, so mutually incompatible?
Immortality is by definition forever. But what does "forever" mean? Is it an hour? A day? A millennium?
An hour spent with a lover evokes a rush of dopamine comparable to nearly nothing I know of, yet it is not forever. Hours are perceptible, they pass with scripted, cyclic regularity. So are days, weeks, moons, months, and even years. What of other measurements of time?
A birthday is a year, a season is a few months, each of which is roughly a moon. Two weeks is approximately a moon, and seven days are in a week. Just over three hundred four days is a year. One more birthday. But it's perceptible, cyclic. I can say "this year I am one year older."
What, or when, is the dividing line between time and not-time? The very fact that we do not have a word for "not-time" illustrates our perceptual lack of it.
But it can, and therefore must, exist, as though even I cannot comprehend a world without time, time itself must have come from not-time. Must it have?
All these musings seem out of place when my world is full of sunshine and laughter, and the sun and moon seem to rise and fall in the heavens each day and night. After all, I must perceive time in the sun's risings and fallings, for I create them. I decode them. I give them meaning, and appreciate them. But forgive an old mind, to whom the tides of time have dealt many a blow. This is the only place I can write this, and so I must.
Is a millennium an eternity? To a subject of mine, whose life cannot span more than a few decades before they drift once more into the dust of the earth, it may seem to be. Is it the lifespan of an immortal? No. I have seen millenniums pass, waiting for my sister's return, distracting myself from what I believe to be time's slow plod. To a butterfly, flitting for a brief moment in the great chasm of time, a millennium is incomprehensible, foreign. It means no more as a concept than "infinity" means to beings whose hooves number four, and who cannot see the purpose of counting so high.
Does it matter what "forever" is? Do I need to know how long my labored breathing will carry on before it all commences to pass? Is it right to ask simply because I want to know? My selfishness pains me, but that is all I believe to be the truth. I want to know, simply because I cannot bear not knowing. This not-knowing is lonely; "forever" seems either too distant or not distant enough.
I know it is selfish and wrong to say I am lonely because and only because I know not how long my tenure will last, how many friends I'll lose -- or gain -- simply by existing. At least, I tell myself that I know it. I tell myself forever is long away, but not too long.
Forever is my closest friend. Luna is my sister, but things will never be the same. Cadance is living her own life, awash with joy in a temporary committal that seems as farcical as a butterfly loving a subject of mine. I tell myself I should not be so cynical, that it is wrong to mock others' love. I simply am saddened, I think. It has happened once too many for me.
But forever isn't cold and detached like Luna can be, with soft-hard scowls at night as she remembers the suffering I inflicted -- I, and I alone -- on her for a millennium. Forever isn't nearly as joyful as Cadance, but I'll never see a seemingly unshatterable melancholy consume forever once Shining passes on. Forever is simply there, a manifestation of whatever is manifested. What its true nature is, I have no rational idea. Forever is just, only just, and always just a slightly warm feeling, a sidelong glance thrown to no-one in particular. It exists everywhere, a silent wanderer among us.
Forever is what keeps me alive, I have decided. It ties me inexorably to my subjects, however distant I may become. We share the same fate, after all.
I will not live forever in the most extreme sense of the word. I will die when all that is comes to an end. But is that not living forever? When not-time is all there is, what becomes of time?
I will not live forever, or maybe I will. That is irrelevant, a semantic. But I will live for forever. That much I promise you.
I am Celestia, the Sun Goddess, so what constrains me to the tomfoolery of the politics of this world?
Why must I wait, twiddling my hooves with poorly-disguised frustration, while the policies that I know will aid the marginalized few founder and sink in the tumultuous, roiling sea that is Equestrian politics?
It isn't as if I am incapable of ending this lunacy. I could force into an uneasy detente -- but a detente nevertheless -- the latent hostility of the aristocracy and the commoners' resentment. What is it that prevents me from doing this, Forever?
As I muse more and more, I find myself wondering why I'm even asking the question. The only reason I do not know why I cannot act on my sole volition is I lack the capability to comprehend what is beyond my agency, at least directly. I should be able to circumvent traditions in a moment. I have before! I am the law, and the law is my plaything!
My agency extends and permeates throughout this entire world, and yet I am not incapable but unable to always pursue the most expedient methods.
How does this contradiction exist, Forever? What is the nature of power in this world? Is it the raw magical talents we bend to our will, which in turn allow us to perform impossible tasks?
If that were true, agency and power would be concentrated in beings such as myself, followed by the unicorn aristocracy. That seems to be the case, but what of the "special abilities" the earthbounds and the Pegasuses lay claim to? I have personally and empirically witnessed the effects of these abilities, which leads me to believe that they exist.
Is agency then linked not to refined magic? Empirical evidence would indicate that it is, which appears a contradiction. But if we examine the evidence within the scope of tradition, we find that the unicorns have long held a concentration of agency and power. That would adequately remove any contradiction, so I will accept it. For now. Although I feel it cannot be
What is the nature of power, then? Is it something predefined, codified, and immutable? I can raise the sun and lower it, but I traditionally cannot raise and lower the moon. When I exiled Luna, however, I was forced to raise and lower both. Does that constitute a mutation of the nature of power? Or could I always do this, but never thought to because of tradition?
Several inherencies appear to foil my elucidating this issue, much to my chagrin. Were we not engaged in what my ministers keep insisting is "a minor skirmish" with "some neighboring rogues" that somehow drains the coffers at an alarmingly prodigious rate, I would be able to devote more time to the matter. As it stands, I have but a few minutes more.
The devil is in the details. How would I manage to verify whether power is -- or was, or shall be -- immutable or the opposite when my ability to do so is constrained by that selfsame binary?
My only recourse seems to take as an axiom my omnipotence, or equate omnipotence with the near-omnipotence I surely enjoy.
Earlier I questioned knowledge, and examined my relationship with you, Forever. It seems I've climbed up another rung on the ladder with this questioning of the nature of power.
I do not understand why I am writing this journal, my dearest Forever. Nothing is "wrong" with my life: I enjoy near-omnipotence (or tell myself that I do); I enjoy my populace's overarching support, irregardless of whatever rabble-rousers may lay claim to the principles of "equitable rule of law" mandating a different form of government; I am content with the mundane ceremonies of courtly life however I may steam; and my life is simple and honorable.
I have attained apotheosis, have I not? I am capable of eviscerating my enemies wholly, utterly, and completely. My wrath is unmitigated, and firm and irrevocable is my doom. I can move the sun, Forever.
But destruction is not the sole provenance of my apotheosis. I hold the powers of friendship, of love, and of harmony. I have compassion for my enemies, even as my wrath knows no bounds. I am rumored to have created all.
I didn't, though. I arose out of what it was that came before me. I enabled my little ponies to grow into what they are now, and I intervened to save them. But I did not create them.
Is creation the province of the gods? It is easy to destroy, but it takes a true miracle to create something. And for all my power, I have never been able to create life. Am I then as a god? Or am I just masquerading as one, deluding even myself about my limitations?
I fear I am not a god, if by god we mean a supreme being. I am bound by the laws of this world, so perhaps I am a minor god of this world, but the distinction is irrelevant between minor god and powerful ruler.
I will never truly know the answer to that question, and so I must fear its answer eternally. That is my weakness, my veritable heel of Akilles. I must ask you, then, Forever: Am I a god? Does it matter if I am, or am not? What must I do to attain apotheosis, if I have not already?
It seems so silly, doesn't it? To worry about whether I am a god when I enjoy so many powers already? I am hailed as a god, so why does it matter if I am not? No one but I would know it. At least, no one but Luna, Cadance, Twilight (for I doubt I'd be able to keep a secret from her), and perhaps Shining would know.
Can I trust them? Thus I fear.
