Seventeen Months

by Jetfire4

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad, Original Character
Length: 2569

Join a pony on a trip of the mind to discover a somber truth about the world they live in.

Hi,
This is an adventure into the world of the train of thought: an experiment of mine that I hope you will enjoy. Join a nameless, genderless, race-less pony (it could even be your OC if you wish) on a trip of the mind to discover a somber truth about the world that he/she lives in.
This story is, again, an experiment, conjured up from the various writing styles I've seen from accomplished authors. Unfortunately, this style is rather challenging to interpret and difficult to understand on the first read-through. I'll be happy to address any interpretations that you may have as well as answer any questions that may arise. Also, this being my first fan-fiction, I am open to constructive criticism.
With that, enjoy the ride!

Addendum:
I have received a complaint about the complexity of the style at hoof and took the liberty of writing an analysis of the story according to my own interpretation. You can find it here.

Published 2014-03-22 20:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2014-03-22 20:50:01 UTC

Transcendence

Transcendence

I'm awake, aware, and alive.

I like the rain. The soft pitter patter of the falling drops against my fur, intoxicating. The smell seeps into my nostrils. The sounds absorbing me. I like the rain.

I met her in the rain, too. Memory is unfortunately bleeding into nothingness, but I can't let that happen. I can't let go. She was holding an umbrella. Blue? Green? Red? It was red. Crimson, in fact. The drops were evading her body - not daring to corrupt her perfect form. The haze was running through her hooves. It was a perfect day to find a perfect pony. She was mine, in thought and thus in action that I was now obligated to take. She saw me, stared at me staring into her. I did not have an umbrella, only a coat. She saw me as I was and giggled - we were one from then on.

Fleeting memories fly. Present becomes past: a window is drawn between me and the rain. I can only view now. Weakened by the days confined and those prior - I am condemned to face what is to come. No power. I can only view. Dampened sound is dampened perception.

There is a knock at the door. I jump; I was not expecting company today. I did not want to be disturbed. I wanted to be alone with the rain. The door opens and a figure comes into the room. It is the nice lady: the liar. The one who talks of hope and everything being OK - force feeding falsehoods into the minds of those she associates with. She walks beside my bed and looks at the computer. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Anger builds. I want her to leave - my mind screaming to take action. My body disagrees, out of politeness, and I watch her perform her duties in silence. She notices, smiles, and asks how I am doing. She doesn't care; why should I answer? No. I don't need to. I don't answer her. She waits for my reply, in vain, and then rolls her eyes. I think she does - I can't hear. I'll answer on the day that she stops lying.

She leaves some things on the computer and turns to exit my room. Bump. She hit the nightstand. She continued out the door, closing it behind her. I know what she did, but she does not. It fell when she bumped it. It fell onto the floor. If she had a heart, it would have been nice to pick it up. But no. She'll continue on her way, actively neglecting the fact that something she did has caused me pain.

I pick it up and hold it close. It is silver. Small. Cold. My heart without a beat. A chain laced to its back. It is my identity. It is my connection to her. A gift. A message to be brave. It opens, but it would be pointless to see what lay inside. I know it is in there. I know she is safe.

I walked out and sat on the porch. We had picked a spot on a lake: my legacy. I liked the shimmer of the waves in the sunlight - today was bright and the waves were too. There was a soft breeze. Was there? There was. I remember because it was cool. Autumn holds such a great combination of temperature and color. The red leaves were accentuated by the shimmering blue of the water.

I wasn't happy, though. I tried to cheer myself up, accept facts, move on. The lake helped. She helped too, meeting me outside and taking a seat to my left. Right? Left. No words - she knows I'm hurting. I was hurting when I met her - a headache. But this is a different hurt, as this was a pain that she shared with me. No words. We share our pain in each other's comforting company. Living while we were still one.

The cart came later. I heard it roll up to the house. It was time. Emotions rolling: anger, sadness, fear. Hope came later. She looked at me, eyes full, tears slowly making their way down her cheeks. She was holding something in her mouth. Silver. Sleek. A heart without a beat. I took it, wordlessly accepting her incredible gift. Tears rolled down my face. Time stopped; with a hug and a kiss, the universe converged on that singular point and my life was complete. A hug and a kiss. Fleeting memories fly, except for that one - it is as permanent as the silver heart.

Buildings are interesting. I don't understand them - their constant ability to support the weight of others. Not breaking under extreme pressure. Designs like this one confuse me even more. The wood warped - twisted - I can see the waves in the walls. Though not waves like an ocean, it's more like a wave of sound. Of light. Of a function of some sort. Sine? Cosine? I don't know, as there is no origin - only infinity wrapped up in these walls. No ceiling and no floor except when someone else is here. This building is confusing. But this building is also artistic. Everything I see is working together to create a sense of unity - following the functions of the walls when I look at them. Bold moves by a bold architect. Buildings are interesting.

I know that there was mud. There was a lot of mud. Two things were certain then: death and mud. Mud was constant - feet high. I blessed it as much as I hated it. Stacked up, it dwarfed any of us below. Tiny ponies next to a pile of mud; this is how I planned to spend my days: beside something safe - something constant. I was looking for happiness beside a pile of mud.

Mixed emotions ran. Home was where I was supposed to be and yet I was not there. I was an ocean away, a foreign shore, and I did not want to return. Odd. She was home, probably doing the things she does best. She was there, I was not. I was alone. Yes. I was alone. The heart was in my pocket, so maybe not totally alone.

Curiosity got the best of me - enough to want to leave my happy place beside the pile of mud. Climb. Up and over is the only way out. I go up, carefully, and let my eyes ascend beyond the pile's height. Maroon. I don't think it was autumn then. Maybe winter? Spring? This was odd. Maybe it was just that way - a constant like the mud. Mud, death, and the color maroon. Then the whistle blew. We were ready.

Sound: dampened sound is dampened perception. If I cover my ears, I don’t get to experience that moment for everything it is. I can only view it, all context removed. The world is run off sound - it grows dark when it is quiet. Night is a time for sleeping and we are quiet; the day is loud and filled with activity. The mind rolls when there is no sound, wanders places that it doesn’t tread during the day. Imagination creates memories - these memories mock experience, though I can’t say I hate them.

The rain has stopped, and I lament. I can’t hear it, I can’t see it, I no longer can experience the rain. The rain reminded me of her - how we met - but it is gone, as is she. Home? Las Pegasus? I don’t know, but she is alive. Why isn’t she here? I don’t know, but there has to be a reason. Action without reason is reckless - she is not reckless.

I put the heart in my pocket as I climbed over. It was time to go. Progression for a nation, preparation for the ultimate sacrifice. Three things were certain: mud, death, and the color maroon. Crimson was about to make its entrance too. It was day, it was loud, and we were readying ourselves as we marched across the dirt. We made our way into the fog, and thus into the domain of our rival.

Variable. Everything else was variable, with the margin of error being massive - almost all outcomes were possible at that point. I only knew that there would be mud, death, maroon and crimson, the rest was left to chance. There was rain, which beat down the haze and cleared our vision. I appreciated it for that. I loved it from then on, because I met her in it.

Shadows enter the clearing. Big shadows - they would tower over us if they got close enough. I readied my weapon. Shots began to ring around me. The shadows fell into the mist they emerged from only to be replaced. More Shadows came. More shadows getting closer and closer to us. I can’t say I wasn’t frightened. One seemed to have spotted me in particular. It ran, and I fired. It slowed down, but kept coming. I just remember its head emerging from the fog - strange, antlered, and it had lifeless eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was bred to kill, but it was prepared. It ran, raising its weapon.

Pain! There was so much pain! I can’t remember what it felt like - you only remember pain through association with pain, and this was unimaginably different. In fact, I don’t remember what pain feels like. I’m numbed from the sense, under anesthetic, but I remember that it should be avoided.

I am numbed. Numbed. No feeling, no pain. Touch is losing its meaning, too. I don’t like it. I play with the heart, letting it fall between my hooves. Nothing; no sense, no feedback. I feel like I’m in a bubble: it is silent, dark, and I can’t feel. Perception is null and it is dark - dampened sound. I’m currently in a state of variability: of reliance.

Consistency! What is constant now? There is no mud, no death, no maroon or crimson - only time. Time! Yes. Time is constant, reliant on no being. It moves forward whether or not the day was loud or quiet, whether there was death or life, rain or sunshine. Time is the ultimate constant. It is my only constant.

But time wasn’t constant. It stopped. Pain overwhelmed my body - my head - and I fell into the mud shaking violently. Crimson leaked onto the mud, kept me company, and the rain made it splatter onto my face and coat. I had found happiness in constants - no more reliance. I am in control. Loneliness dies as I die. But I had her in my pocket.

And then I saw her, standing in the mist. She was looking out of place - an umbrella in hoof - and she mimicked a constant: crimson. She was beautiful, and I stared into her beauty. I watched the drops evade her form - not daring to corrupt it. The haze ran through her hooves. Loneliness dies as I saw her. She turned and saw me too. She saw my pain, my suffering, my happiness and loneliness, then giggled. We were one from then on.

Paradox. If a=c and b=c, then b does not equal a. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. Fleeting memories fly, but those were real. I know because she was there - both in my pocket and when I met her. But that cannot be. No. But I remember! How can this make sense? I had known her for years! We met in the rain. She was holding something constant, and I was in pain. I was dying. I accepted that loneliness died as I died. But I was never alone dammit! She was always there! She was there since we met. Since we met, she was there. No. An unfortunate puzzle that has just been solved.

Loneliness died as I died; I didn’t die but loneliness did. We were one from then on, and we were one at every point up to there. I’ve never heard her talk, all I know is that she’s beautiful: the culmination of my desire. Imagination mocks experience.

I wasn’t looking for happiness in constants, rather I was looking for refuge from a truth in them. I was looking for happiness in something variable: her. But she never came. I was never brave. A constant struggle. I remember.

It has been quiet for a long time. Imagination runs where the mind doesn’t tread during the day - when it’s loud. My imagination ran with her. Mine ran through a life with her. Mine corrupted my experience and I caught it. I remember.

Nothing is constant now, no refuge, no safety. The world is run off sound. My world is run off sound. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the window, they are all reliant on sound. But even when they are in the presence of sound, they themselves can never be constant. Waves, twists. It has been quiet a long time, and my imagination has been running. It tried to create a reality - mock my experience yet again - and failed. Buildings are interesting, but never built like this. My world is run off sound. I remember.

Time is my only constant. It moves and is reliant on no being. It will always be, and it will always move - it has always been moving. Time will not stop for me. Time never stops. Where has my life gone? I have been here - confined in a bed - for a long time! Months? Years? I don’t know, but it is long enough to know that my life has been wasted imagining a lie.

A lie, indeed. I was imagining a lie. If I was imagining a lie, then what was I holding? A relic of my subconscious? A memory unfulfilled? I don’t know, but I have to open it. I have to see what is truly inside now. I have to know the truth. I click the button on the side and it pops open. I pry the two ends of the heart apart and reveal what is on the inside.

Nothing.

The silver began to degrade, fade out of existence. It was a lie, a false hope, and I believed it. Gone. It was gone now, and so is she. I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know. Loneliness lives, my mind makes an illusion against it. I am, and always have been, alone.

The rain is gone. I need a second chance. I can be brave. I can! Give me a chance! Light the world, bring sight to my eyes once again! Break the chains confining me to the chair! I will succeed!

There is a knock at the door. I jump; I wasn’t expecting company, but am comforted by it. It is the nice lady. She apologizes, quickly comes in and grabs the things she left on the computer. She never was lying, just comforting me. I was ignorant - confined to my imagination. I can answer her. This is my chance to begin anew.

“Thank you.”

Author's Note

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