When they are young, foals ask each other what their favorite colors are.
“I apologize again for using up your entire day; you have my most sincere sympathies, Ms. Sparkle. Do you have any questions about what I just told you?” he asks something along those lines. I’m not too sure what his exact words are, I haven’t been paying attention. All I see of him is a blur: sterile white over mustard yellow and a brown that is just a little too deep to blend in. His desk is tan, I’m sure of that. Two windows, green walls—they look pale, he should have them redone—and a ceiling fan that’s turned off. I know it not now, but from memory; I can’t see anything right now, but I remember that before now it couldn’t have be seen as too much different.
And it isn’t that I do or do not understand him, I just don’t know if I have any questions or not. I presume that, even if I did, I would not get any answers—only explanations that he knows I wouldn’t comprehend. I assume him very well measured: practiced in the art of stoicism. I knew his name for the longest time, but I don’t remember it now; his name badge is too blurry to see. The white light above us doesn’t help, it’s getting in the way of things. It’s splitting the top of my vision from the bottom; I now only see half of his blur. I don’t remember if the light was on this entire time. It hurts now, but just a little bit of stinging. Could it really have been on so long? There’s still a bit of light left in the day, it would be such a waste to leave a light on.
“I don’t think so,” I say. I think I smiled politely just now, but I’m afraid it might have come off as insincere. I hope I at least smiled though, it would be so rude not to. He is such a nice stallion, after all. I think I used to know his name. I think he’s saying something now, but I’m not too sure. I don’t hear him, so I guess it can’t be that important. Either way, I don’t really care anymore. I’ve been here for a long time today.
They’re ushering me out now. I don’t hear their words, but they sound very comforting. I feel at ease. One of them has a pink mane, it’s very pretty. I wish sometimes that my mane was pink; I would look very good with a pink mane. Celestia’s mane used to be pink, but it’s rainbow now. Rainbow Dash’s mane is also rainbow, but I guess that’s how she gets her name. I wonder what Rainbow Dash would be named if her mane was pink. I think she would look good with a pink mane too; maybe Rarity can try to give her one. Rarity’s mane is purple like mine, just darker.
We’re at the exit—no, scratch that, there’s no we. I’m at the exit, I don’t know where the others are anymore. Her mane was so pretty. I walk out of the door, pushing it open with a hoof. I forgot to use my magic, though. I usually use my magic, I’m very good at it; although it feels nice, opening a door on my own. It feels empowering. I should do it more often.
Water from the sidewalk splashes all over me.
I rub my eyes, squinting. I can see clearly now. I can see the cracks on the sidewalk and the ants that live there, but they no longer interest me. My mind is clear now, but that makes my stomach sink a little. I wish I could go back to a minute ago, but that time has passed, and I am now myself.
I remember now: his name is Doctor Stable, and her name is Nurse Redheart.
A disgusting chill runs up and down my spine. I turn to look sideways and see a few colts running past me. They’re laughing and talking to each other. They must have not noticed I was here, that or they didn’t care. There’s water on my scarf now, I’m not sure how I feel about that. I like this scarf, it was a gift from Luna; the scarf’s color scheme even matches her coat. I could be angry at them, but I’m just not tonight. I think I’m going to take a walk. It was nice to be in a daze, but I need to clear my head for real now.
What was I on about again? Ah, right: favorite colors. Children ask each other what their favorite colors are, no matter how nonsensical a question that is. Spike asked me what my favorite color was earlier today; the only way I could respond to his question was with a confused glance. Why would someone pick a favorite color? I had asked him. Is there any point to it? A color is a color, what makes one a favorite?
He told me his was green. That was all he had to say about that.
I think I understand it a little better now: foals ask each other their favorite colors not because they actually care but because they want to start conversation—the origin of polite small talk at the coffee table. Even when they’re young they’re already following the rules of elite society, dancing the ever waltz of exchanging a few nothings then moving to the next dance partner. How instinctual could it have become, now, that we are born to exemplify the very rules we as children set out to protest, just in our own right? I suppose I was never the same: I was a bit of a recluse. I understand it now, though.
I begin to follow the direction the colts had ran in despite them having already left. My steps are much more graceful than theirs; I walk in a slow, straight line, at least as straight as I can assume—the sidewalk ended a few steps ago, there’s just a large field between here and the main part of Ponyville. Trees surround it like a gate to a hidden world, beckoning entry to those pure of heart yet warning any of its natural fury. Maybe I’m not so pure of heart; I’ve never felt particularly safe in Ponyville.
I keep walking. Soon the grass below me turns to nothing but frosted soil that cracks under my hooves as I walk. I look down curiously, testing another patch of it. It cracks again. It is as if to say that only when frozen, only when tested past the capacity of its endurance does something become one with that which is around it, and even then that bond can be shattered thoughtlessly by the smallest, most insignificant force. Perhaps the world itself, everyone in it, is nothing more than a collection of frozen dirt clinging together only by the weak grip of the societal ice: it is forever slipping, forever in fear of melting away and, if the system is ever to become cold and dark enough to remain stable, something as minuscule as a rabbit’s paw can still shatter it into a million pieces.
I don’t have a favorite color, but if I did, it would be white.
I look up to the sky. It’s a mix of dark blue and purple with only the slightest hints of orange mixed in. The stars act as bright rifts in the night’s canvas of swimming colors. They are the holes in the wall, giving hints to the brilliance of the room behind them that I just can’t see, at least not yet. I imagine the room to be nothing but white, spanning for miles beyond countable miles with nothing to take up its space except thoughts and time for those thoughts. There would be time, endless time, such an amount of time that the greatest mathematicians of our world would find it incalculable, only frustrating. I wish not to frustrate them, so I will never bring it up. I’ve met many of them, they’re very nice ponies.
I’ve made it to town now. It wasn’t a long walk here, maybe a minute or two at most. The streets around me appear empty, lit only by the soft glow of orange lanterns that flicker on and off every few seconds. I once thought them broken, but now I believe that they’re intended to be that way. Regardless, they cease not in their attempts to allure me, and they are succeeding with little trouble. I walk through the light, crossing the small road on the right of the sidewalk. It isn’t that there is anyone out here to catch me, or that I believe it to be for my safety, but the rules are the rules. Who am I to decide herself above the great laws of the land and walk in the center of the road? It isn’t to be done. It isn’t to be done.
At this very moment, I begin to hear the faint sound of music playing in a nearby alley. I follow the tune, turning down the darkened road only to stop in my tracks to listen again. I can hear it more clearly now; in fact, I recognize it: the song is Auld Lang Syne. For a short moment, I laugh almost bitterly, but that isn’t stopping the rhythm from sticking in my head. I can hear the crackling of the old radio it must belong to. The interference is almost as loud as the song itself, but Auld Land Syne still persists. How determined it must be, and what a fruitless battle it must march toward.
Despite myself, I begin to hum along. I begin to think of my own days of old, how they have treated me so and how I have treated them. I suppose that, if I was wiser, I could have done much better. There isn’t much sense in worrying myself over what cannot be changed, though. If not elated, I am at least content in knowing that I must have done something right up until this point to still be here—something worth being raised above drowning in eternal misery.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, repeat they who think themselves wise. Tomorrow I will not suffer, tomorrow my day will come, tomorrow happiness will claim me in its loving arms. Today my turmoil rages, tonight I'll twirl a knife, but tomorrow I shall be free: I have earned it with every scar, they say, begging, pleading that they can come to believe themselves for the thousandth time so far, as if the pain of life is some eternal sacrifice, some martyrdom to prove themselves worthy of happiness. They consider misery a commodity they work towards, tradable only in bulk for a sliver of gold. It is a loan they give, indebting their lives in torture, never to be repaid. Yet they love it nonetheless. Yet they need it nonetheless.
I do not want happiness, I am content only with contentment itself. As I stand here, reflecting on my time before now, I do not lament; I am but a casual observer into the window of my own home. I do not attempt to open the door or rearrange the rooms. I simply look inward, glancing as I pass by, making my way toward the next empty building on the street; however, into the building before me now—a vibrant coffee shop with bright lights and an icicle-covered red awning—I stop to stare. I stop to stare silently at the ponies inside. I stop to stare at them as they dance and sing, spinning each other around in ceaseless, reasonless glee, drinking and spilling hot chocolate as they go. Perhaps I am the only one who believes the song to be too slow for swinging.
And just as I am about to turn and leave, the glass door opens. Out of the crowd walks Applejack, smiling gently past the desire to shiver and run back inside. Her body is covered by a light brown jacket, a compliment to the stetson hat and red scarf she wears. Her blonde mane runs freely down her neck, lacking in the usual red bands that would hold her ponytail together. I think it looks better this way. She should let her hair down more often.
“You must be”—she bites her lip and pulls her scarf tighter—“freezing, Twi’. Come inside and have a cup, will ya?”
I turn away, looking into the window once more. “I think I’ll stay outside,” I say calmly. I try to return her smile, but my face falls almost immediately after it rises. “I like it out here.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. Her concern is more than obvious, she isn’t attempting to hide it. She’s been like this many times, a matriarch to those around her in her own right. There’s a bit of selflessness and maternity about Applejack that most ponies do not perceive past the rough and blunt farm pony they claim to know and love. I see it though. I see all of her. I see because I look. “Is there something wrong, sugarcube?” she asks.
Everything. Nothing. What am I supposed to tell her? The truth? A lie? She would see past me before I even began. Is it truly my place to burden another just because they ask for it? Am I so important as to inflict pain upon someone else just temporarily relieve my own? Would I be anything more than a schoolyard bully taking out my frustrations on someone else so they would be the one that bruised and not I? I don’t know what to say, so for awhile, I say nothing.
A moment passes. Applejack steps closer. I step back.
“Happy holidays, Applejack,” I say.
She sighs. She’s disappointed in me. I would be disappointed in myself as well. “Happy holidays, Twilight,” she says.
As she returns to the shop with slumped shoulders and a heavy heart, I begin to hear nothing more than the sound of familiar music in my ears. I look inside once again at the laughing faces of the party, and for the first time, I smile sincerely, because I know that no matter how things change, they’ll always stay the same. The grandfather clock on the wall may now tick for me, but in this second of twilight, my life is mine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Pinkie Pie as she picks up Rainbow Dash, spinning her out onto the shop’s makeshift dance floor. Pinkie is the rule's exception: blissfully ignorant to the world, she believes that there is nothing better than what she has. The ponies around them turn and laugh as Rainbow staggers in astonishment. Applejack brightens too, offering them her own light chuckle. Rarity and Fluttershy simply smile at the scene, happily sipping their hot chocolate as they sit and talk about nothing but their favorite colors.
