"Hey, Pinkie, what's up?" Twilight Sparkle didn't have much cause to visit Sugar Cube Corner most days. It wasn't that she didn't like sweets, necessarily--Spike in particular was extremely fond of the little bakery's various offerings. She just tried to avoid eating too many of them at a time, which meant she only had to purchase half a dozen or so a week, and even then sometimes she skipped a week or so. Today was cupcake day, though, so here she was. For once, the little shop was empty of other patrons, which gave Twilight the opportunity to chat with her friend.
"Oh, hi Twilight," the pink pony responded, her voice uncharacteristically calm and evenly pitched.
Twilight raised an eyebrow at her. "You okay, Pinkie?" Twilight didn't get to speak with her ebullient earth pony friend as often as she would have liked, but she could typically count on the vivacious pink mare to provide a breath of enthusiasm and a touch of chaotic conversation. Clearly this was not the case today.
"Yeah, I guess so," Pinkie said, her face troubled.
Twilight smiled slightly. "Missing Maud?" Pinkie's older sister had left Ponyville a few days ago, and considering how much Pinkie adored her sibling--and her tendency to exhibit the most extreme emotion applicable to any situation--Twilight knew this was as likely to be the source of Pinkie's depression as anything else.
"A little, I guess." Pinkie said, absently wiping the counter with a damp rag. Twilight waited for her to explain further, but was surprised when Pinkie simply fell silent again, staring at the glass display case beneath her hooves.
Twilight's concern deepened. Even when Pinkie was unhappy--an extreme rarity in its own right--she was always supremely talkative, often to the point of frustration. It was usually pretty easy to figure out what was upsetting her because of this, since she would typically talk in circles until she managed to unintentionally talk her way into an explanation. This new laconic Pinkie scared her a bit. "You guess?"
Pinkie nodded. "I guess. Really, she just reminded me of some sad stuff, that's all, and I've been thinking about it since she left."
Twilight frowned. "Why? What are you thinking about?"
Pinkie glanced at her momentarily, her eyes strangely hollow. "Sad stuff. Stuff I hadn't really thought about in a while."
Twilight raised an eyebrow at her. "Like what?"
The other pony shook her head. "I can't tell you, Twilight, I don't want you to be sad, too."
"I see," Twilight said. "Well, is there anything I can do to make you...not sad?"
"I don't think so. Thanks, though."
Twilight stood silently for a moment, watching Pinkie absently ponder the increasingly polished glass counter top. "You know," she said, "sometimes when I'm sad, I like to write about what's making me sad, like in a journal, or poetry. It sometimes helps to put your thoughts and feelings on paper, so you can see them written out. Sometimes it makes everything seem less scary when it's all organized and small like that."
Pinkie looked up at her, eyes searching the unicorn's face. "Really?"
Twilight nodded, smiling. "Sure. Writing is very therapeutic."
Pinkie thought for a moment. "Maybe I'll try that," she said, her face brightening slightly. Her mane, somewhat flat and lacking its characteristic pouf, seemed to bounce a little, the curls a touch tighter, the hair a bit more lustrous.
"You should," Twilight said, relaxing a little as Pinkie seemed to regain some of her normal enthusiasm.
"Will you read it when I'm done?"
Twilight blinked, confused. "I...suppose. Why would you want me to?"
"'Cuz you're my friend," Pinkie said, smiling very slightly, "and if you read about what makes me sad, maybe you can help."
Twilight frowned. "I guess so...alright, sure," she said. "I'll read it."
"Great!" Pinkie perked up a bit, the smile on her muzzle wider now. "I'll let you know when I'm done."
"You do that," Twilight smiled. "Now--"
"Half a dozen buttercream strawberry cupcakes, right?" Pinkie asked, some of her usual pep creeping into her voice again.
Twilight grinned. "You got it."
"Coming right up!"
~~~
Twilight yawned and glanced out the window of her library at the horizon. Even though the sun was just now slipping below the edge of the Earth, she was exhausted. Today had been reshelving day, and while that would have been tiring enough on its own, the Princess had sent her an urgent request for a report on various Griffon technologies and their history. Why it had been urgent, Twilight wasn't sure, but she had dutifully researched, written, and sent the report as quickly as she could. It had taken most of the rest of the day to complete, and now she was dismayed to find herself entirely too tired to finish making her checklist of tasks to complete tomorrow. She'd have to wake up early to finish it, which of course meant shaving several minutes off her sleep schedule, which would mean she would have to find time tomorrow to take a nap, which meant she would have to postpone her lunch with Rarity until--
A loud rapping at the library door startled her out of her frenzied rescheduling stupor. Puzzled, she walked to the entrance and said, "Who is it?"
"It's me, Pinkie!"
Twilight momentarily considered being angry at the other mare for calling so late in the day, but hearing her friend's voice had completely regained its typical cheerful air brought a smile of relief to her face. She pulled the door open. "Pinkie, isn't it a little late to be visiting the library?"
The bubbly pink pony was bouncing lightly on her hooves, her cotton candy mane following her movements with a slight delay. "I know, but I was just so excited to show you what I wrote that I couldn't wait until tomorrow!"
"What you...wrote?" Twilight said, puzzled. Pinkie nodded as she bounced past the perplexed alicorn into the library.
"Uh-huh! Remember how you told me to write something if I was sad?"
"Oh yeah," Twilight said. "How did that go? Looks like it worked, huh?"
Pinkie nodded excitedly. "Like a charm! I feel sooooooo much better!"
Twilight smiled. "I'm glad. An unhappy Pinkie is the saddest thing I can imagine."
Pinkie giggled and nosed into her saddlebag. "Here, you wanna read what I wrote?" She pulled out a sheaf of paper and offered it to Twilight.
Twilight stared at the page for a moment. "Are you sure? I mean, it's probably pretty private, isn't it?"
Pinkie shrugged. "I dunno. I just wrote a poem."
"A poem, huh?"
Pinkie nodded. "I haven't read it yet. I just sort of started writing, and when I was done, I felt all better!"
Twilight stared at her, puzzled. "You...haven't read it?" Pinkie shook her head. "So you don't even know what it says?" Another shake of the head. "And you want me to read it?"
"Uh-huh. Tell me if it's good!"
"Alright..." Twilight took the paper with some curiosity and a touch of trepidation. She found her way over to the carpet in the middle of the room and settled into the soft pile to read.
Rocks and Other Breakable Things
The rocks lie silent, broken, breaking,
The pain they feel they hide, they never
Cry and nor shall I.
No cracks, no chipping, never shattered
Again.
That quaint and quiet farm I walked
And trod upon the broken rocks,
A filly's stride could never quite
Outrun
The Work. No fun, no color, somber
Stoic, faceless stones sit and wait to be
Broken.
Too young to know the
Work
Is too hard, not meant for me.
Never meant for me, but I do it.
I lie
Or stand. I carry
Rocks.
And guilt.
Pain.
Even though I do not want to do it
I do.
My sisters know the work is never
Done. The things I do, they did in turn
Too young. The pain in time will
Fade
But with it take the sense of feeling, for no time can
Fade
That which the harsh and cleansing light may not see.
Only numbness through can truly dull,
And so we numb.
One through feelings lost to dull grey,
Stoic and painless as the rock she emulates.
One to silent anger, directionless and
Cold, the searing agony of hate hides the dull ache.
One to fear and loneliness, a blank
And bitter life alone avoiding memories.
One to denial, thorough and deep, a layer of
Lies too deep to believe and too shallow to cover neat.
We hide
In ourselves from him. We cannot hide outside.
A filly's stride too short to escape
The Work.
We break rocks.
He breaks.
We all break
In time.
The greatest rock resists the pick
To no avail. Silent acceptance eases the strike
And blood from a stone flows easy when that stone is stone in
Only soul and name.
The rocks are silent. They fear the
Pick but cannot escape, and so they suffer
Madly
Until.
Rock can break, and break.
Damaged rock more jagged 'comes, and breaking only hones the
Edge.
Relentless chipping, picking, until no longer stone but flint,
And flinted stone can cut and does.
The broken stones can only watch the flint strike steel.
The sparks shower, and the wilted flowers soak up the bloody rain
To grow.
They will not grow true.
Their petals run red.
Streaks and lazy curls of crimson hate will mar
Their hiding faces. They will not bloom.
The rock farm lies vast, and the empty fields grow long,
Too long for a filly's stride to
Escape
But no fillies live here. Only rocks, broken and blood red.
They find their way.
Not together.
Like scattered chips and tattered cloth, they wander,
Not fleeing. There is no fear. The pick is broken.
Once whole, they part. Like rolling
Stones
They gather nothing. Their paths diverge, and never
Meet.
Two rocks already cracked can only shatter if struck
Together.
I met a rock. My cracks were worn dull and hers
Filled with something strong. Too strong.
Harder than a rock, and I less than one.
We struck, and no longer cracked, we caromed
Off one another. No damage. No connection.
We did not recognize one another.
No longer rocks, but less.
And more.
But never whole again.
We parted, as though our paths had never
Crossed again.
Rolling stones, still gathering nothing.
Useless when damaged.
Only fit to sit
And wait.
Until.
We erode to dust and fade away
And all that remains is the
Work.
"Sooo? What do you think?"
Twilight didn't immediately respond to Pinkie's question. She had finished the poem several minutes ago, and had been sitting in silence trying to process it ever since. The pick. The rocks. Surely...but no, that's crazy...isn't it?
"Twilight?" She glanced up to see Pinkie looking down at her with concern. "You okay?"
"Yeah! Yeah, I'm...fine." Twilight forced a smile onto her face. "You said you haven't read this at all, right?"
Pinkie shook her head. "Nope. Just let it flow from the pencil!" She grinned. "Why, is it good? Should I read it?"
"No, no!" Twilight said a touch too loudly. Pinkie stared at her in surprise. "I mean," she corrected herself more quietly, "no, you don't need to read it. It's...alright. Not great, but...you don't need to read it again. I mean, it made you happy again, right? There's no need to read about what made you sad in the first place if you're not sad anymore, is there?"
Pinkie pondered this while staring at the ceiling. "I guess not. It wasn't bad, though was it?"
"No, it wasn't bad, in fact...do you mind if I keep it?" Twilight asked hesitantly.
Pinkie raised an eyebrow at her. "Keep it? Why?"
"So I can read it again...you know, if I want to." Twilight tried to smile again, painfully aware of how disingenuous the expression felt on her face.
Pinkie shrugged. "Okie dokie lokie!" she quipped before bouncing back towards the door. "Thanks again for the advice, Twilight! I'll see you tomorrow!"
"Yeah, no problem," Twilight said absently, looking back at the scrawl on the paper again, furrowing her brow. "See you."
The door shut behind Pinkie, leaving Twilight alone with her thoughts. They're just rocks, right? It's a poem about the rock farm. Hard work. Breaking rocks. Nothing else.
"Of course not," Twilight told herself, forcing a smile. Pinkie was full of surprises, no doubt about it, but she doubted symbolic subtext was something she was particularly good at. Then again...
She shook her head one last time before floating the page over to the trash can. It was just a silly poem. An exercise in free association. No sense in pulling meaning out of gibberish. A second thought crossed her mind and she floated the poem out of the trash can and instead slid it into one of the larger, more tedious tomes on her library shelf, hoping to insure Spike wouldn't happen across it accidentally. With another shake of her head, she smiled again and made her way up to the second floor of the library, intent on going to bed before her imagination gave her anything else to worry about.
Just a poem about rocks and picks and nothing else.
Nothing else at all.
Right?
