There aren't many things that keep you going. But there are some.
Life, hard as it is, strange as it is, easy as it is, greasy as it is, dropping you into an abyss of turmoil on a daily basis, this fiery will-o-the-wisp, sometimes gives you unexpected presents. Thing is, you just have to see them. Life gives you good lemons; you just need to find the right recipe for the lemonade.
I remember my first present very well. I was three, I guess, when my parents, ponies of easily-acquired wealth and proud descent, decided that their daughter's birthday, such a glorious occasion, called for a two-hundred-bit playset that, far as I can remember, consisted of a castle, with the moving gate and towers and all, several benches and a tiny garden where trees and bushes could be planted anywhere at will. Of course, my dear parents did not realise that I was too young to play with tiny items like that, by most standards; but what they also bought me, as a 'support' gift, was a wonderful doll, a young mare, or, rather, a mature filly, the kind of doll that our market wants fillies to become when they grow up to buy cosmetics and ridiculous clothing.
One way or another, I enjoyed the present, for many years. It gave me a smidge of inspiration; just enough needed to create eloquent stories of princesses and dragons; and I, of course, was the knight, saving my plastic princess from a giant plush Paddington bear or some other grave danger. Then I would kiss the princess, brush my teeth and go to bed, dreaming of new tales of fantasy and chivalry. I did not know that I was into mares, back then. How could I, at such age? To think about it, I did not even realise my sexuality until college. But, crazy as it may sound, when ponies surrouning me were fucking around, I was actually studying; and I wouldn't have had it any other way.
When I did arrive at the decision to begin a full, if steady, sexual life, the castle was already half-crumbled, the garden destroyed by my cousin's car, and the princess given away to the local orphanage as an act of good will from the rich, who undoubtedly care so much about the poor. But life gave me another present.
When my cutie mark showed up, the only thing I did know was that it was connected to music in one way or another. What kind of music? That remained to be seen. I challenged all instruments, striking it good at brass, failing miserably at the strings and being somewhat decent at keys. The sax, though, was the instrument I chose, or, if we're being cheesy, the one that chose me. But the present that life gave me was a chance to earn some bits as a technician in a night club.
Being the rich, spoilt bastard I was, and still am, I found it my duty to rip some poor fellow off his chance to earn some bits and applied to the position, taking it up by my surname, and not skill. And yet, there was some skill, as it turned out. Fixing the wiring and setting the mikes soon turned into a fun little game to me. Checking the turntables grew into learning about them, scrutinising the instrument thoroughly after warm evenings of saxy jazz played in our spacious kitchen in the ten-million-bit mansion at Echelon Hills.
My parents were easy to persuade, and soon, the package deal of turntables, shades, and mane gel made me a new pony, the one ponies had come to know as DJ Pon-3. The fast rise, thanks to my father's connections, a steady job, thanks to my skill, and number one in modern fashion, thanks to my mother recommending me to all those magazines. Can't complain, can't complain. My parents have made me a name, and I have done everything to keep it up. And I did. As it should be. And, thanking me for sticking to tradition instead of succumbing to youthful rebellion, life gifted me with another present.
The present came in a neat package of a black tailcoat, wrapped up in a pink bow tie, sprinkled with perfume and spiced with a perfect round flank. How could I resist? And, tell me, how could I not approach her after the gig, the only visitor in such a peculiar outfit?
We talked; likely story. Tired after concert, dropped by the nearest bar, jibba this jibba that. A few drinks, and a few more. How could we not get drunk? And how, tell me, could we not end up exchanging numbers after that?
The days of wine and roses followed. Happy walks in the moonlight, and tea-drinking in her living room, under the stern gaze of Beethoofen staring at us from the portrait, and romantic dates in classy restaurants, and fun dinners at burger joints. It was all so perfect. And wine and roses, of course, were there too, as soon as we decided to start dating. That present was the sweetest one.
There were arguments, of course. Every argument, too, I think, can be considered a present. The damage dealt is nullified by the precious experience received. Nourishing that experience, keeping it in mind... changes absolutely nothing. You'll end up none the wiser, and there will still be arguments. But, sometimes, you look back and see that, after all those quarrels, you are still together. If that's not a sign of devotion, I don't know what is.
And, naturally, the most recent present was also the most shocking one. A common story: a restaurant, a sweating pony in a suit, gazing at her beloved, waiting for the right moment. The ring. The proposal. And, as if it could be any different, she said yes. Tears of happiness and kisses and embraces - all that followed. Back at home. But then, in the restaurant, there was only 'yes'.
Now I wouldn't mind a little present too. We're still looking for a venue to host the wedding, one that would accomodate not only our huge families, but also all the friends of mine and Octavia's whole orchestra. She's been made the soloist just recently, you know? My little cellist.
But I guess I'll manage to find the venue myself. Maybe ask my parents for help. After all, family is the most sacred pact in the world. Like love. And I can only hope life gives us a long and peaceful life as our wedding present.
Because, as I said, life gives you damn good lemons.
You just need to learn to make good lemonade.