Sitting in the Shower with Bottles of Cider

It has been a very long time... since I last in this basin with a cold cider in hoof. I have been gone for so long, I don't even remember who I was back then. I dare not open the book to old pages, lest I be reminded.

I remember not liking who I was, not liking the hooves I was assigned. I remember my mane being shaggy, dirty, my eyes dark with weariness. These things are kept in the pages before the one I write now. Locked away.

Where they belong.

I have since been on a long journey. I have crossed mountains. I have trekked fields. I have loved. Lost. Loved again. I have muddied my hooves with new jobs... been hungry, been thirsty... But the one thing I cannot forget, cannot let go of... is my dog tags. You see...

I was a Royal Guardsman. Not a particularly good one. Just... adequate. Banged up, mistreated by fellows. It's in the past. But still, the dog tags around my neck remind me of who I was, and who I'm not. They jingle as I walk, they sway in time with me, always keeping up. My lover has worn them, and I can smell her perfume on their surface sometimes, when she deigns to wear some. Those tags have my name on them... they contain the scars of a life ill-lived. They have seen me drink, be horrible, and stare down the cliffside as I prepared to jump.

But then... they reminded me not to jump. The wind jangled them just enough to remind me of where I had come from, what I stood for. I backed away. Since, I went back to work. Many places hired, but none felt right. I got stuck, and there they were again to remind me that I was worth more than just to be another Mercenary. So I left that life again. The hours of staring at parking lots, looking out for trouble. Gone. A new life presented itself to me.

I became a worker. A laborer. My hooves are dusty today, and muddy on rainy days. My eyes sting with sweat every day, and my mane is matted from my helmet and the perspiration from beneath. It is similar to being a Guard, Royal or otherwise... But here I am free. I am outside of a box, and the place I chose to work is that which *I* myself chose. Not out of necessity, but out of whim. The dog tags still accompany me.

There are few things quite so precious.

And few things have ever made me happier.