Smearing Paint on a Blank Canvas
Ponies often ask me what it was like growing up. It's understandable. Being such a fun, crazy, random mare. Having such strange abilities. I'm even the Element of Laughter! But I never get much into detail. They would never believe it.
The Grey Land. That's what the ponies who live there call it.
Dray Shire is what it's officially called. I don't know why. Who ever named it must never have been there. Or he/she/they only saw the work fields.
The long rows of the quarry fields. The criminals sentenced to hard labor. The ones never to be released. Shackled forever. Broken down to the state of a common work animal.
Speech is a rare talent. What is there to talk about? The land steals your voice if you're not careful. Takes it from you in plain sight. The wind blows away your breath and you fall silent. I know, my sisters have fallen prey to the land and the wind.
We never went to school. The only teachings we had were the bare basics. How to add. How to read. The only school house was too far away. What was there to learn anyway? The rocks had no need for conversation. The voices in your head had their breath stolen in the night. The wind never howled. The trees that were always there but never grew gave no whispers. Even the silence had long lost its sound.
The town was the only group of buildings and ponies you'll see for miles. There was no need for locks. The nights too cold, the days too eerie. Transactions were but background to the scene. Money never flowed. The piles on the tables never changed but ponies walked away with bags full, coin purses lighter.
I would look up to the sky. A grey hue. What was the color blue? Did it truly exist? My eyes were a reminder to the colors lost in my world. The never changing days cast in grey hues. The clouds that passed only smoke. The weather was the same, day to day to day. The endless feeling of being in bathwater cooled to lukewarm. If you sat perfectly still, it might even feel warm. But if you moved, the cold swept through your heart.
I remember the nights. A strange cold came down. A presence settling down on the land. I remember walking the road to town. All roads were the same. Long and stretching, pressed dirt, lined with rocks to keep out the unwanted wanders of the plains. No one ever had locks. No one ever had any need for them. The piles of goods never changed even though I left with bags filled. I had no coin purse.
I remember the first time I saw a Plains Walker. A white ghost on the horizon. A pony-like figure with bulging muscles. The flesh reached over its hooves. The veins pumped a foreign blood. There was no hair on the beast. No coat, only flesh. The eyes, just sunken pits of glazed over pupils. The lip-less mouth full of teeth. The Terra Formers and Quarry Ponies would seal the mouths shut with bolts. Bolts would be driven into the fleshy hooves to hobble. Only one was ever needed to pull the massive carts of rocks.
There would be other ponies working along side them. Soul Sighters. Blind or blinded and aided by Diamond Dogs. They could feel the earth beneath their hooves. Sense what's there. It never mattered if they were earth, pegasus or unicorn.
The shadows laughed. My Granny Pie taught me that. She taught me the right songs to get them to sing along. The shadows were curious to heard the sound of music. Of voices. Of singing. The shadows smiled wide grins full of shark teeth. The fangs were like long blades. Their eyes were the only red I'd ever seen at that time. Red irises, with black pupils split by a further red radiating out from within. They hid in the closets and under stairs. In nooks and crannies. Unused cabinets. I found one when pulling out a rarely used platter. It only stared and grinned. I wonder why I never learned to smile from them? To grin and laugh.
The air of the house was of strict guidelines. No-nonsense and proper. The rules were clear. The elders were always watching. Don't misbehave. Don't ever leave. Do you want to be shunned? You'll never survive out there. It's too strange. Too loose of morals. No. Stay.
It wasn't always so bad. My parents had long since learned how to survive. They taught me and my sisters during those few, tender moments. My mother would comfort us as she brushed our hair. My father would teach us as he read. We would sit around the living room, radiating what little warmth we had.
I still love them. I still write. I still send money. They still write back. They still send their thanks. They still...
Have you ever seen a blank canvas? The white blank canvas. Have you ever seen the starless sky? The horizon that never ends. The flat plains. The never-ending grey. Emptiness.
I smear the paint all over it. I throw the bright yellows of the sun I never see, the further red of the shadow's eyes, the green of trees that always are but never grow. I stain the sky with glitter. The color explodes on the horizon. A coming storm of clouds reaching, stretching out its fingers. It wishes to hold the land.
I jump for joy. I skip with glee. The color follows me. I am the harbinger. The sky clears and my eyes are the color of the sky. A spring that never comes forms in my hair. New life grows. I am the painter.
The world is my canvas.
The blank state stares into my soul.
I reach out with it.
My soul is my paint.
New happenings occur at my hooves.
The blank canvas is waiting.
Taunting me.
I see the horizon before me. Somewhere out there, there is a land of color. Untouched by the Grey. The Grey untouched by the Color of the world. I need to paint. I have broken open the vat of my being and I need to use it.
I have no care about being one of the shunned. I have no care about knowing so little. I have no care about 'How will you survive?'
I have done something I can't stop. The river rushes out. The paint trails my path. I can see now the end of the horizon. I have done it. I've touched the horizon and I've broken it. The pieces fall all around me.
Ponies often ask me what it was like growing up. I could tell the truth, but they would never believe it. They have never lived in the endless Grey. They've never broken open their very being to paint the land. I could tell them. But sometimes it's easier not to. To just be 'Pinkie Pie being Pinkie Pie.'
Author's Note
When surrounded by empty, meaninglessness, people either are consumed by it or become the opposite of it. Pinkie grew up in a land of nothingness. Her sisters seemed to have surrendered to the never ending grey. The dullness of everyday life and a deep depression. Pinkie bloomed in oppression. She saw the grey as a blank canvas that needed to be painted. She had such a want for more, she became more.
It's similar to how during times of war and despair. There's a growth of art and music. It's why people living in poor places reach out with creativity. Some accept the nothingness. Some seek to fill it.
Also, I don't own any of the art. Inspired after listening to Welcome to Night Vale.
