A Grimy Earth PonyView OnlineWaking LifeA Grimy Earth PonyGranny Smith trotted into the living room where Big Macintosh was napping. She nudged him softly and said, “Wake up, deary. I need ya to take a cart of apples into town and sell 'em.” The slumbering stallion awoke and eyed his grandmother suspiciously. Granny reiterated herself. “I said I need ya to sell some apples in town.” Mac nodded groggily and stood, joints popping as he did. Granny exited the room and he followed her out into the yard. A sturdy cart chock full of apples sat waiting to be transported. Mac hitched himself in with Granny's aid, and walked off the farm at a leisurely pace. There was no sign of his sisters anywhere. They were likely out back in the orchard. Not long after the farmhouse disappeared behind him, Big Mac's thoughts began to wander. After all, his only company was the creaking cart and the resident birds' harmonious songs. Lazy Sunday afternoons were a superb time for meditation and personal reflection. The bushes to his left rustled. Mac halted and glanced at the agitated, rather discordant shrubbery. Out of the blue, another earth pony slowly emerged onto the path. He was beyond dirty and scratched up from time spent in the woods. Mac figured he must have been there for several days. He sure smelled like it. “Relax pal,” the pony said. “I ain't gonna hurt you. Name's Donnie.” Mac furrowed his brow. “That a pony name?” “It's my name,” said Donnie. “It fits me just fine. Hasn't caused me much trouble, so I figure it's worth keeping.” Mac shrugged and resumed tugging the cart. Donnie trotted alongside him and sized his cargo up. “Say friend, spare an apple? I'm just heading down the road a bit. Been on vacation a while.” Big Mac stretched behind him and plucked an apple from the top of the pile. He handed it to Donnie who graciously wolfed it down. “Thanks a million! Haven't eaten in a couple weeks. Mother nature can be a bitch, you know?” “Eeyup,” Mac agreed. Donnie wiped the apple juice off his lips and shook his hoof. “Anyway, where you heading, stranger?” Mac swatted a mosquito away from his face. “To town. Sellin' apples.” Donnie sported a sheepish grin. “Town, eh? Ponyville I presume. I've never been myself, but I hear it's the premier place to be in terms of cultural refinement and stuff.” Mac wrinkled his nose. How could he not have been there? It was only a mile away. Donnie reached up and extracted another apple from the cart. He ravenously bit into it and said through a full mouth, “Bet you ain't selling these because you want to, are you?” Big Mac thought for a second. “Eh.” “Well, I don't think you are. In fact, I don't think any of us are.” He quickened his pace so he could turn around and look Mac in the eye. He trotted backwards as he spoke. “I don't believe in any of that free will mumbo jumbo. There's just no room for it in contemporary philosophy, you know?” Mac nodded. “The proof of free will leaves a lot to be desired, if there's any proof at all,” Donnie went on. “The way I see it, the universe is a lot more deterministic than that. Take you for example. You're taking your cart of apples to town. It feels like you're acting on your own accord, right?” Mac stopped, picked up a piece of straw, and stuck it in his mouth. “Eeyup.” They continued their journey. “Well,” explained Donnie, “you're not. At least I highly doubt it. The real popular theory lately says that there are an infinite amount of prior causes that determine your actions, stretching all the way back to the moment the universe was created. Whether that be a god, or an accidental collision of atoms, or a llama pissing on a block of sodium. That's how I think the universe was created. The point is, you can claim an infinite regression of causes and events to explain deterministic theory. That's all well and good. The soundness of the claim is another can of worms altogether. I'm interested in right now, this very moment. Every movement I make, everything I say, is caused by something that potentially happened millions of years ago. Every glorious moment of pony history, every war and every breath has intertwined into the glorious crescendo of the words coming out of my mouth. Same goes for you. Following me?” Mac blinked and nodded. “The whole world is spinning inside us, and we're guiding it. Don't you see? Our actions now are just perpetuating the great unbreakable thread of continuity. We're cogs in a machine. It just so happens that we have a very minute sliver of choice. Even though your actions are determined, you can still pick which ones to take. For example, stop.” Mac slowed and stopped walking. He looked at Donnie quizzically. “See?” said Donnie. “You didn't have to stop walking. It doesn't matter though. Our margin of variance is totally unimportant. If you walk, it's determined. If you stop, it's determined. Leads a pony to feel trapped, you know? It's kind of maddening to think about. A fake freedom in a sense. I guess the universe is a bitch too. C'mon.” The duo started up again. “I don't buy into determinism,” Donnie said after a minute. “I'm more of a fatalist. That's the only theory that I can handle. Fatalism is a lot more structured and airtight. No room for any freedom whatsoever. It's almost paradoxical, kind of. I don't know. Maybe.” “What's fatalism?” Big Mac asked. Donnie lifted his hoof up like a teacher giving a lecture. “I can best explain it to you using an example. Based on the undisputed tenets of fatalism, everything that will happen is set. It is either true or false that you will perform an action or behave a certain way. You will either take your apples to town, or you wont. There is no earthly way to change that fact. It doesn't matter whether it's true or false, because it's always one of them. There is no feasible way to stray from our paths because anything we do is what was originally supposed to happen. See what I'm saying?” “Kinda.” The tips of Ponyville's rooftops scratched the horizon. Mac smiled upon seeing his favorite town. Donnie cleared his throat. “Yeah so, in summation, I lean towards fatalism. However, that isn't precisely what I believe. This brings me to my last point.” He deviated from the dirt path onto an idyllic patch of grass with an old stone well sprouting up. “Even if we don't have free will,” he said, “it still feels like we do. Remember when I said that earlier? That's a uniquely sapient quality. Even if you and me were fated to have this talk and couldn't have avoided it, it still feels like we had a choice. Right?” “Eeyup,” Mac agreed. Donnie sat down on the lip of the well. He crossed his legs and rubbed his hooves together idly. “They're so crazy, our minds. We can be manipulated into believing we're free moral agents that act outside the boundaries of dogma. Yet, to say that we are is almost foolish. I can shuck your skull open and poke around your brain. I can press certain spots, and make you move the way I want you to. Yet, you'll believe wholeheartedly that your actions are your own. You're a puppet to your brain and the universe alike.” Mac scratched his chin and contemplated the idea. Meanwhile, Donnie hefted himself up and positioned his body over the well. He lowered himself in a bit, hanging his hooves over the side to keep himself from falling. “Wanna hear the epiphany that I've come to realize after all my years in solitude?” Donnie asked. Mac could tell he was eager to share, so he politely agreed. “Eeyup.” “Get this. This is crazy,” said Donnie. He was brimming with anticipation for the big reveal. “Ready? Who cares!? Who cares if we don't have free will!? As long as we don't think about it, and we feel like we do, what more could you ask for? It's not like we live our lives under the iron hoof of philosophical oppression. At least most of us don't, anyway. Don't you see? It doesn't even matter! There's no point wasting your brainpower thinking about it!” “I guess?” Mac said in confusion. “What more could you ask for than to feel free?” Donnie cried. He began to laugh. Mac unhitched himself and started trotting towards the perturbed pony. “Honestly, friend,” Donnie breathed through raucous cackles, “what more could you ask for?” Without another word, he let go of the well and let himself plummet. Mac shouted and galloped over to the well. He leaned over the side and called Donnie's name, but received no feedback. After a minute of silence, Mac retreated from the well. He shivered and hitched himself back up to the cart. He didn't want to just leave, but there was nothing to be done. As he slowly marched the last leg of the journey into town, he heard a howling laugh from the bottom of the well.
A Sweet FillyView OnlineWaking LifeA Sweet FillyOnce he found a sufficient spot to occupy in town square, Mac unhitched himself from the cart. In his periphery, he saw a filly jumping. He looked over to the right. A young unicorn no bigger than Applebloom hopped up in down in a desperate attempt to retrieve her pinwheel from a windowed flower pot on the Cake's bakery. Mac trotted over to her, smiling internally at the adorable scene. He graciously extracted the pinwheel from the dirt and handed it to the diminutive pony. She looked up at him with curious eyes. “Thanks mister,” she said casually. “I might have been here all day if you hadn't come along.” “Eeyup,” said Mac. He then thought of something. “Ya couldn't reach it with yer magic?” The unicorn giggled and shot him a look of condescension. “You're funny, mister. I don't have any magic.” He decided not to question her counter-intuitive remark and instead began walking back to his cart. To his mild surprise, the young pony trailed after him. She walked right up behind him, stalking his shadow. When they reached the cart, Mac sat on the ground and asked the filly why she'd followed him. “Oh,” she said. “I just wanted to ask you something. I hope that's okay.” She blew on her pinwheel and observed the shimmering plastic rotating hypnotically. “Sure,” Mac agreed. “Why did you help me? You didn't have to do that.” The answer was easy. “Ya needed help,” Mac stated. “Well, I'm thankful. Even if I don't buy into our current ethical standards, I still appreciate it. It wasn't your moral duty or anything.” Mac shrugged. He was just happy to help. The filly sat down across from him and set her pinwheel beside her. “I get the feeling that you're a very moral pony. Do you help others a lot?” “Eeyup!” Mac said with a smile. “That's really good. We need to have at least some social contract in order to maintain a healthy society. You know, you help me, I help you, nopony murders anypony. I just don't like the way things are now. We don't account for race or anything like that. Everything gets muddled and too complex. Besides, why shouldn't I just leech off of a free system of caring individuals? See, an agreement on how to behave doesn't delineate what it means to be a truly moral pony. It only covers actions, for the most part. Obligations too. There's so much more that's left unaccounted for! This is why I hate it when adults try to assert themselves as domineering forces. They really need kids like me in the government. I have a lot of really proactive ideas that the Princesses should hear.” “Yeah!” said Mac, going along with her. “Say, can I have an apple?” asked the child. Mac stood up, fetched her one, and sat back down. “Thanks again,” she said. “Random question: do you know what social relativism is?” He did not. He indicated this by shaking his head. The filly said, “It's easy. It's just an idea that every culture has their own ethical standards and viewpoints, and that there cannot be any overlap between them. After all, one cannot ethically judge another for having different worldviews. Let's say you and I went to Maretonia. They're a pretty violent group of ponies. Everypony knows that. But, we have no right to pass judgment on their practices and laws. There's no correlation between our set of rules and theirs. We absolutely cannot hold them to our legal standards, nor they us. It just won't work like that. Let's say an acceptable sentence for a misdemeanor over there is a public stoning. Here, that would likely count as murder. Well, too bad. Isn't up to us.” She paused to let the information sink in. Big Mac waited patiently for her to continue. “There's a point to all this, sorry,” she said after another minute. “Here's where it gets interesting. You know how infants are basically non-sentient, right? They're blank slates, free of any sense of blight or duty. Yeah?” “Eeyup.” She polished off the apple and tossed the core behind her. “Well, recently a group of scientists did a bunch of studies on foals. I'm not exactly sure what they did because I haven't researched it enough. Either way, they found something amazing. Turns out that even newborn foals have some minor degree of moral sense built in. There's a small little compass in their heads that knows right from wrong even at birth! Can you even grasp the implications of such a discovery? They're immense! This means that ethics as a whole is largely grounded in the noumenal world! See where I'm going with this?” Big Mac hoofed at the dirt. “Uh...?” “It means that evolution itself has developed morality almost like an appendage. Ethical natural selection! Trust me, a lot of ponies think that the entire philosophical field of ethics is just a sham. Even I was pretty iffy on the validity of certain ethical standards for a while. I thought it was all made up, but I was wrong! Social relativism is wrong! If there is an over-arching scale to measure the goodness of our actions naturally built in, then we can't just make up our rules willy-nilly! This is a ground-breaking discovery. A lot of pompous philosophers are going to fly off their nut when they finally realize 'hey, morality is real!' It's a resounding vote in favor of fairness, and I for one am big on fairness.” “S'good,” affirmed Big Mac. He stood up and attended to a customer looking to buy some apples. The filly got up as well and politely waited for Big Mac to finish before speaking again. “I'm sorry, mister. I didn't intend to hog so much of your attention. I know you have your wares to sell. I guess I just got a little overzealous when I started talking about my first grade dissertation.” She was no problem at all. Mac smiled and shrugged. Company was company. “I really should get going, I suppose,” said the filly. “You look like you have a lot on your mind. If you've never meditated before, I can't recommend it enough. Oh! Or a sensory deprivation chamber. You'll find layers of yourself you never knew you had. I swear, you could spend days in there if you didn't have to eat or drink. Oops!” She giggled. “I'm rambling again. Sorry. Okay, bye mister! I had a great time talking to you!” She clutched her pinwheel in her teeth and scampered away from the cart. Mac watched as the returned to the Cake's house and subsequently chucked her toy back into the flower pot. Pretty soon another pony came and fetched it for her. She thanked him vehemently and followed him down the road and out of sight. Mac couldn't help but chuckle. Kids.
An Old Swamp-DwellerView OnlineWaking LifeAn Old Swamp-DwellerSeveral hours of steady business passed. The cart's generous supply of apples gradually dwindled, with an inverse effect on Mac's coffer. A flurry of smiling faces came and went throughout the late noon and into the evening. With his clientele base beginning to head home for the day, Mac decided he'd close up shop and make off with the earnings. He bit into one of his remaining apples and walked around to the front the cart. Just as he was hitching himself in, a shadowed form came into view. Mac squinted in the waning light. It was an old pony, encumbered by age. He hobbled lethargically in Mac's direction. Figuring he might make a final sale, Mac waited for the elder to catch up to him. When the two met, the elder spoke first. “You're all alone out here,” he said whilst surveying town square. His voice carried a thick dialect which made him sound as if he was perpetually chewing gum. Mac figured he must have lived deep in the swamps. “Eeyup,” Mac responded. The elder chortled whimsically and rested a bony hoof on Mac's shoulder. “No no sonny, I don't think ya understand. You're all alone out here.” “Eeyup...?” The aged stallion scuffled over to an empty bench and took a seat. With a curt smile, he motioned for Mac to come and join him. Mac obliged. When neither stallion spoke for a lengthy while, Mac decided to break the silence. “So-” “How d'ya know that?” interjected the swamp-dweller. His outburst startled Mac. “Wha?” “I said, how d'ya know that?” “Know what?” The codger slapped his leg land laughed. “Anythin'! How do ya know anythin'? The world around us ain't got much to say. S'all filtered in through yer head. No way to tell if what yer seein' is what's really there.” Mac frowned. “There's a silver linin' that comes with the realization that our world ain't too stable,” muttered the elder. “Look at it this way. In any case, we're still thinkin' rationalizin' bein's no matter what the truth looks like. I'm gettin' a little ahead of myself though. Let's start with the idea that this is all fake.” He waved his hooves around dramatically. “Remember that child's rhyme that says life is but a dream? We never really grasped the full context of the message, but it turns out it was right all along.” The sinking sun shone in Mac's eyes. He shielded his eyes with a hoof. “Hm. Fake?” In turn, the oldster began systematically touching everything in sight. He rubbed the bench, stood up and hoofed at the ground, and even took one of Mac's apples. “I can feel all this! I can smell the scents in the air and see everything in town. Why is that? 'Well duh,' you say. 'Because it's right in front of ya!' Is it really though? Ya could be dreamin'. Nothin' says this ain't all one big life-long dream of yers. Senses work in a dream. Perceptions are real to the brain. For all intents and purposes, dreams are reality in yer own mind. 'But how could I possibly know what's what?' ya ask. Well, it's yer lucky day. There are signs fer testin' to see if yer dreamin'. Fer example...” He dropped the apple and moved around town square as if searching for something. He found what he was looking for, swiped it off the ground, and came back to the bench. With glee he handed the object to Mac. It was a derelict newspaper, torn and sullied from extensive time spent on the ground. Mac read a few lines and shrugged. The newspaper wasn't awe inspiring. In fact, it wasn't even substantially significant. The elder pointed to the headlines on the paper. “While asleep, the left hemisphere of yer brain ain't too active. This means ya can't read or tell time too well. Try readin' somethin' or lookin' at a clock. If the text is fuzzy or keeps changin' all around, it's a good indicator yer off in lala-land. Ya also can't control light levels. Go ahead sonny, try and bring the sun back up. See if ya can.” Mac knew a futile task when he saw one. He just shook his head and said, “Nope.” “Can't do it, eh? Well then! Ya never know. Ya just might be dreamin'. I'd recommend gettin' into a habit of runnin' checks every now and then. See if light switches work, glance at a clock, ya know.” “Eeyup.” “That's the fun thing about it. There's no way to know fer sure. Argue all ya like. Raise as many points as ya like. There's just no dadgum way to prove our wakin' world is only that, and not somethin' else. Buildin' off of that point brings me to another hot-button theory. A great philosopher once posited that all of our conscious perceptions might be tube-fed in through an external source. We could be nothin' more than brains floatin' in vats somewhere, devoid of any true self-awareness. Like I said, our brains are what matter when it comes to senses. All that we touch, see, feel, everythin', it could all be nothin' more than electrical signals bein' wired straight into our brains. Like a forced dream or somethin'. The nature and intent of such a reality is anypony's guess.” “That's far-fetched,” said Big Mac. “Sure it is,” said the elder, taking a seat. “That doesn't mean it's totally bunk. S'all a matter of perspective, y'see. The only reason it's crazy is because ya love yer body too much. To reject the vat theory ventures dangerously close to solipsism. That's the distrust and rejection of any and all external stimuli apart from one's own mind. If ya buy into solipsism, then only you would exist. No other knowledge or minds would be knowable, or even possible for that matter. Ya just can't prove anythin' is real! I wouldn't exist other than as a figment of yer imagination. Which, in this case, is accurate.” “What?” asked Mac in befuddlement. The confused response elicited another guffaw from the swamp-dweller. He tapped his forehead and said, “Sorry. Got a little off topic there. There's one more short theory I wanna tell ya about. It's by the same philosopher who first proposed that life is but a dream. He thought that just maybe a malign entity was constantly warpin' our senses and making us witness false perceptions. Cloudin' our judgment, renderin' us totally incapable of seein' the truth. Well, that may be the case. However, there's a really powerful fact that we can strip from all this gloomy uncertainty. All of these theories have something in common, and it proves just how powerful we are.” The chirp of crickets pervaded the square. As the two sat together, Mac leaned back and gazed up at the stars. The sun had since dipped far below the horizon, shrouding the town in inky night. He hadn't realized just how much time had passed since they started talking. “Here's the bottom line,” said the elder. “Here's the little nugget we can pluck out of all this nonsense. To be deceived, we have to be able to be deceived. Only thinkin' bein's can be manipulated – ya can't trick an inanimate object or a non-sentient life form. This proves invariably that we as ponykind do exist as conscious forms that are capable of rationalization and self-awareness! Our minds have to both exist and function in order to even operate on a level of thought susceptible to deception. Besides, our contrived little reality here ain't all that bad. Does it matter if we're just brains in vats? Possibly. The unrelenting quest for existential truth tells us to pursue further investigation, but hey, I'm pretty good as I am. I'm perfectly happy with my world, even if my puny mind is being tricked. Here's the scary thought – what would ya wake up to anyway? Do ya really want to find out if all this is a dream or not? What happens when you really wake up? That's what really scares the livin' hell out of me. “Wow,” breathed Mac. He mulled the paradoxical theories over. “Yeah, I used to spend a lot of time thinkin' when I was huntin' on the bayou. I came to realize that all the knowledge we could ever need is floatin' right over our heads. We just have to turn ourselves into conduits to receive it,” explained the elder. He rested his hoof on Big Mac's shoulder a second time. “That was back when I was al-” His voice stopped short. Mac turned his head. To his wild bewilderment, the old stallion was gone. He was alone on the bench, and in the square. “Hello?” he called. No answer. The wind whisked trash along the ground, but no other soul was present. Mac slowly stood up and stretched. He took his time looking around for his conversational partner, but failed to locate him. Scratching his head, he concluded that the discussion was over. He hitched up to the cart and plodded through the empty square. The dark alleyways of Ponyville yawned as he walked by. At the very rim of town, at the last outlying buildings, a white light in an alley snagged his attention. He peered toward the source. The light was coming from around a corner, and a shadow morphed frenetically against the wall. On a whim, for curiosity's sake, Mac temporarily left the cart and walked toward the light.
A Lively VagabondView OnlineWaking LifeA Lively VagabondBig Mac peeked around the corner. A solitary figure paced from side to side in the alley, illuminated by several portable lights on the ground. He wore a dingy hoodie and his tail was clipped excessively short. Cans of spray paint littered the ground. The figure picked up a can and traced artistic patterns onto the now colorful wall of a nondescript building. The entire canvas was splashed with vibrant colors in an almost hallucinogenic decal. In the very center of the sprawling mural were the words “Nice Baculum” in dripping purple letters. As the vandal finished the newest layer of whorls and outlines, he retreated a few steps and observed his work critically. Satisfied, he turned around and caught Mac staring. “Oh! A visitor!” said the vandal. The voice was soft and feminine. The now apparent female pulled down her hood to reveal a friendly face. She was a bright-eyed zebra, no older than Mac himself. Bulky hoop earrings hung from her ears, and a smoldering cigarette rested inertly on her lip. “What's your name, visitor?” she asked politely. “Big Macintosh,” said Big Mac. “Hi Big Macintosh. I'm Mythic Valve.” She extended her hoof, which Mac shook. “I'm an runic engineer from Canterlot, specializing in hydro-dynamics. The line of work is very complex. I love my job, but it gets boring sometimes. I want to live my life authentically. That's what existentialism is all about – living life with authenticity.” “Eeyup,” agreed Mac. “I'm sorry about vandalizing that building,” she said while pointing to her work. “I know it's illegal and all. I just felt so inspired today! Today was a really good day, and I wanted to encapsulate my positive feelings. It's ultra important to assign meaning to things that deserve it. In fact, that's the only thing that's important. Life is, by default, meaningless. It's up to us to inject it with significance. That's why I spray painted the wall. The context of our actions is completely irrelevant, as long as we act with conviction.” She raised her hoof up as a rebellious symbol. “Conviction is our fuel and authenticity is our goal!” A smile formed on Mac's lips. He nodded in agreement. “I know what you're thinking now,” said Mythic. “What if I believe in God? Or any god? I don't think religion and existentialism are incompatible. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think they compliment each other. Belief in a divine retribution can easily be used as a template to guide your life. Why not act authentically toward the end result of earning a seat in Heaven? Or, reincarnation, or whatever you want to believe in. Life here would still be meaningless because you'd only strive for ascension. Personally, I think it's selfish to expect my own messiah. I want to find my own path to Zion, you know?” “Not really.” She took a drag of her cigarette. “This moment, right now, is where we live. All life is this - this moment. Later is later. There's a quote from a song I like that fits what I'm trying to say. 'This body holding me reminds me of my own mortality. Embrace this moment, remember we are eternal; all this pain is an illusion.' I don't know, I just really identify with that. Death is always hovering over us, creeping in our shadows. Whether you're scared of it or not, whether there's something after it or not, we all have to live. You've seen the ones who don't. They're husks of souls. They're automata that wind themselves up in the morning. They skulk through the day without so much as a flicker of awareness. We're not like them, you and me. We absolutely must awaken from out dogmatic slumber and act. It's imperative! Wouldn't you agree?” “I s'pose,” Mac said. He picked up a can of paint and inspected it. It was brand called Ubik, which he'd never seen before. “Haven't thought much about dyin'.” Mythic got back to covering her wall in streaks of orange. “That's good! You shouldn't! It will captivate you, and eventually consume you. It's coming, but you should never let it dilute your living. This reminds me of another song I like.” She began to hum in a lively manner, and sung under her breath. “Death to everyone is gonna come, and it makes hosing much more fun.” “Don't you mean everypony?” questioned Mac. Then, “What's hosing?” Mythic turned toward him again. “It means sex, I think. Speaking of, you want to have sex with me? Right now?” Mac felt his cheeks burn. “H- what-?” “Just a question. It might be fun,” Mythic responded. “But more importantly, it'd be authentic. I won't be offended if you say no. Up to you.” “Uh, I-” he choked. “Relax. I wasn't trying to fluster you. Just trying to live by my own principles. All this talk of death got me inspired again. I don't fear death, but I dread it. Dread is inspiring, and shouldn't be used interchangeably with fear.” Leaning against a wall, Mac slowly let his embarrassment ebb and resumed a normal body temperature. Mythic sighed audibly. “There is one thing that I do fear, though. What happens when I stop being inspired? When I can no longer live authentically for whatever reason, what will be left for me? I'll become an automaton just like the ponies I'll despise. I'm pretty sure that at some point down the road, I'll have lived all that I can. This brings up the question - should I just say 'so long, and thanks for all the fish?' Just quit while I'm ahead and join the afterlife early? It's a very legitimate question. Existentialists, and nihilists too, toss this thought around indefinitely. Behind the veil of action, it's the only question that matters. If life cannot have meaning, why is ending it early such a despicable concept? Honestly. It's not selfish. The ponies who call self-termination selfish are fucking idiots. For many, it's simply the last step in the great checklist of life, like remembering to turn out the lights. It's not cowardly either. Maybe it really is the only option for some? I don't know. Who the hell are we to say otherwise? Ponies call me disturbed and irresponsible for even considering it, but quite candidly, it's the most responsible thing I've ever thought about.” Big Mac said nothing. Mythic looked at him and frowned. “Don't give me that look. I'm not advocating anything here. I know I'm overgeneralizing a critically serious subject, but somepony has to in order to grapple life's toughest questions. Look, I don't want anypony to suffer. I'm not heartless. Don't misconstrue my message. A lot of ponies can be, and are saved by the compassion and empathy of real individuals who love them. Positive impacts produce unfathomably greater effects on us than negative ones do. Love is overwhelmingly authentic. True friendship is pretty authentic too. Acting viscerally is grade A life-living. That's where the doctrine of nihilism fails. A nihilist will tell you that everything is absurd. Our world is so irrational that you should just off yourself immediately. But he's wrong! There's beauty in the dissonance! We create the beauty and we enjoy it together! Like my art here. To some, it's just a pattern of lines and colors. But we can see it as beautiful! At least I can, and I hope you can too, Macintosh.” “I can,” Mac confirmed softly. “It's is beautiful.” “Thank you,” said Mythic. She tossed her cigarette on the ground, approached Mac, and tenderly kissed his cheek. “Now go home. It's getting late and I have a lot more buildings to cover by morning.” “Okay.” Mac set the can of spray paint down softly and looked at the cryptic zebra. “Remember,” said Mythic. “Be real. Live authentically.” “Alright,” promised Mac. “I'll try.” The two went their separate ways. As Mac walked back through the alley to his cart, he heard a lively hum and the pressurized whoosh of spray paint.
RepriseView OnlineWaking LifeRepriseWarm summer silence blanketed Mac's trip back to the farm. Alone with his thoughts, he intrinsically reviewed all of the day's odd and somewhat troubling conversations. His mind worked in overdrive as he ascended the dirt path to his house. When he arrived at last, the farm was dark. After all, it deep into the night. He unhitched from the cart and padded quietly up the wooden porch steps. The rest of the Apple family was nowhere to be seen. Mac assumed they were asleep, and headed upstairs to his own room. He didn't bother flipping on the lights. Instead, he flopped right into bed and rubbed his weary eyes. The clock on the wall acted much like a hypnotic spell. With each miniscule tick, Mac felt himself edging closer to the brink of sleep. He shut his eyes and pulled his blankets into a clump to spoon. The longer he lay there, the lighter he felt. His comfortable sleepiness increased at a steady rate until he felt almost entirely weightless. A soft rustling brought his awareness back up a minute amount. The blankets slid out of his grasp and his head sank lower. Sensing something was off, he opened his eyes and looked around. His bed was a foot below him. He was hovering in midair – his body bobbing softly like a lazy balloon. He flailed his arms about and grunted in bafflement. There was nothing to anchor himself to. By now he was halfway between his bed and the ceiling. He continued to thrash vainly and thought to himself, I must be dreaming! Largely on impulse, he raised a hoof to his mouth and bit into his arm. The resulting pain jolted him awake. His eyes shot open to a boundless azure sky. He climbed to a sitting position and drank in his surroundings. Sprawling grasslands surrounded him in all directions. As far as the eye could see, silky green oceans rustled in the gentle breeze. Mac rubbed his arm and stood. A darkly colored form sprouted up from the grass about a hundred feet away, contrasting the natural colors. Mac decided to take a chance and approach the form. Princess Luna lay comfortably in the tall grass. She tapped furiously at a little typewriter by pecking the keys with magic. Oblivious to Mac's presence, she slaved away at her task while periodically voicing a quiet hmm... or ah! Mac circled around and sat down in front of her. She instantly noticed him and stopped typing. “Oh! My goodness, is this your dream? I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to invade. I didn't even know this dream was being used. I usually try to keep to uninhabited ones.” “S'fine,” Mac assured her. “Well, if you say so. In any case, I don't believe I've met you before,” said Luna. “I guess it's pretty obvious who I am. What's your name?” “Big Macintosh.” She shifted around on her belly. “Big Macintosh. It's a pleasure. You don't mind if I stay in this dream for a while do you? It's one of the most peaceful I've found in weeks.” Mac smiled. “Go ahead.” “Thanks. I usually try to keep things varied, but everypony has been having a lot of nightmares lately. Sometimes I just want to relax. I've been jumping around more than I ever have before. Needless to say, I've been meeting tons of new ponies. Somepony once said something I like. I can't remember who said it, but it's a great quote. 'The idea is to remain in a constant state of departure, while always arriving. It saves on introductions and goodbyes. The ride does not require explanation, just occupants.' So anyway, you've crafted a wonderful dream here. Thanks for letting me stay a while.” “You're welcome. Whatcha' writin'?” asked Mac. “A novel,” answered Luna. “I'm right near the end, but I can't for the life of me figure out how to end it. There's no reprise, no grand finale. It's about relationships, emotions, moments, everything. I guess you could say it's cyclical in nature, but it still needs an ending. Every story needs at least some kind of ending, whether it be conclusive or not. ” Mac tapped his chin. “Hm. Eeyup.” “Maybe I'll write you,” said Luna. “You seem like a stallion of few words. Maybe the story could use that. Tell me, what were you doing just before you came here?” Mac thought back to his startling experience. “Not sure. I thought I was awake, but I woke up from my last dream straight into this one.” “Ooh, a false awakening,” marveled Luna. She tapped away on the typewriter. “How does that make you feel?” “Kinda scared. I really thought I was awake. I don't feel any different now. I still feel like I'm awake.” Luna changed positions. “Well don't worry. You're not. In fact, you might have been asleep a lot longer than you thought.” “Makes me nervous about wakin' up again. What's it called? False awakenin'? I dunno what I'm gonna find when I shut my eyes again. What if it's another dream?” Luna shrugged. “Is that so bad? I spend a lot of my time in dreams.” “Yeah, but I got work to do,” Mac protested. “I can't afford to get lost in my dreams.” “Well, then I see only one solution,” said Luna. “Wake yourself up. See what happens. Remember the signs to check if you're really awake?” “Eeyup, but how did ya know I knew 'em?” Luna smiled. “I think everypony should know them. So I just assume they do.” Mac let himself fall back onto a bed of grass. Again he stared into the infinite sky. “What am I gonna find when I shut my eyes?” “I have no idea,” Luna admitted. “Something new, at least. You might find waking life different than you remember it. That happens to me sometimes when I spend too much time here. Hey, that's a pretty good line. You're a good character. In fact, I think I know how to finish the story now. Thank you, Big Macintosh.” “You're welcome, Princess. It was really nice meetin' ya. I hope I can see ya in the real world someday. Bye,” said Mac quietly. He sighed slowly and closed his eyes, preparing himself for whatever he may find on the other side. The breeze ruffled his fur softly. With the sun bathing him in warmth, he drifted off to sleep once more. Or, perhaps, he woke up. Author's Note Kierkegaard's last words were: "Sweep me up."
