Be With Me
11/30/13
A My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fanfiction, authored by InMyMind.
My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic was created by Lauren Faust, and is copyrighted by Hasbro. I do not claim any rights to their intellectual property.
Available on Google Docs, at: http://tinyurl.com/qes8hl2
Thanks to my proofreader, the ineffable Horse Voice.
Thanks to the National Geographic, for providing my cover art.
Propter Deum
The world is alive with color.
The world blinks, and shines, and cries out to be captured.
The world blinks, and shines, and cries out to be put in a safe box.
In my safe box I will keep the world.
Although she scares me, I will hold the world softly in my box as she would like me to do.
Colors, flashing, this is all so wondrous.
How can you all not see this that is all so wonderous?
I choose silence over speech; I converse with lazy winds and lustrous hummingbirds and not with ponies. Though I do not ever hear the loving words ‘I deeply care for you’, I also do not ever hear the unloving words ‘I do not deeply care for you’.
Late afternoon sunlight distills through the whispering leaves and laughing branches of many long-lived trees. With my box, I capture this filtering sunlight and rolling wind. Of all ponies, I am the one to have found a summertime moment among the lives of watching trees.
I am an Ordinary pony; I am no one special. It is my self-given duty to place dreams inside my box. Every moment spent fulfilling that duty is one I relish. My aspirations rest in this box, ponies I have never met rest in this box; my soul rests in this box. Pleasant conversations do not rest in this box, and I appreciate that.
}-|-{
If I you had a glimpse of my stored treasures, you would see that words are ambiguous. Like old metaphors and indecent analogies, words lack substance; words are not real. Words show ponies who cannot see what is real a facsimile of reality.
Scientists tell us that truth is whatever we make it to be. Great scientists argue that this is incorrect, for they present a greater truth and they call it an insoluble figure and a better fact. The populace unqualified will tell you many different things. But what do they know? Reality is what I make it to be.
The seashell spires over Canterlot are sunsplashed, and reality. The brave ponies who drink little water and wander into the red southern lands are reality. The pegasi and their sunset tradition, the stars and the cream cheese moon are reality both. What is real is beautiful and fleeting.
Celestia’s solar child is coaxed off to bed. The cold stars above peek out from behind the gloaming, and they ask with trepidation: Is it safe to come out now. I tell them it is safe to come out now, for it is. It is truly and verily is safe for the stars to come out now, for the suncat has been slain.
Assured, the nighttime foals nod and wander out into the aether. They shiver, burn their hooves upon hot chocolate, tell wizened tales. To their princess they bring their petition. They ask to be separated from the deep cutting chill they bleed. Luna answers this prayer, and the breeze that moved afternoon trees becomes a biting force.
The daytime colors have passed away, and the apologetic night is grey and fabulous. Luna offers dark chocolate to anypony curious enough to gather underneath her canopy. Few ponies will do that, few ponies will accept that delicious gift; the night is an acquired taste. To be appreciated, the night must be realized.
For the last time tonight, I drink deeply of the night’s chalice, to walk back home again. For the last time tonight, I think upon what is real and what might not be real.
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I am safe under many fleecey blankets. Cause the shaking winds outside, I feel unsafe. For bravery, I ask not why they are hurried. For bravery, I ask why my bedroom window is an open door. I am brave enough for that, to clamor out from under my cream colored sheets, to bat my windowstop from its perch, to hear the painted frame crack upon the sill. The glass does not split, and by luck the lock swings shut.
Candles die a gradual death. Like artists, candles dance and cry and give their all for a bit of light. Like artists, candles die much too soon. The world does not notice their absence until they are long, long gone. Candles fuel faith in a dark and dangerous world. To allow ponies to write.
So ponies may write letters to those they deeply care for.
To allow time to slow, to keep record of who they were, lest they pass away.
Too many ponies are scared; the thought of being emotionally vulnerable frightens them.
You are not an agent of chaos, you have nothing to fear.
Your words will not end you, so speak.
Please, for love.
Take up a candle and write to your mother.
During these late hours, it is safe to be a candle. Ponies sleep deeply, and they don’t wish for a candle’s last gift. To write.
Shadows wander outside, and they sell fruit to one another. Over the simmering wind, they call out and they grin. ‘How were you last night’, ‘Did you hear that thing I said’, and ‘Is the night not a majestic and fleeting time’. Their many astronomers duly study the post-solar horizon, to predict falling stars and the phasing of the moon.
To sing, ponies draw upon memories and impossible aspirations. Shadows cry. In this way they worship the moon. In this way they sing. Ponies pause; they are boisterous. Shadows are very quiet; they cannot speak well. Wind rattles. If ponies were to wander through the moonlit streets, they would be changed for the better.
Run and do not stop me; rush and let me flow to become all that I have aspired to be. I have aspired to be loved, and to be perfect. I have aspired to be known, and to know. I have aspired to tell others all I know, and to have them hear and soak up the information I offer. I pour out my heart into a bowl, do not pour that bowl onto the ground. To achieve all of these things, I would give up function for wavering, temporary form. I would lose who I am to become a uniform ghost.
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The night grows ever colder. I suspect it will never end. Be with me.
