Shattered
By: SilentBelle
Every day I wake up to the soft light of dawn sifting through my dusty old window. I blink at the light and lay upon my creaking bed, and the first thing that comes into focus is an array of posters plastering the oaken walls of my room. Their blues and yellows catch the morning light and somehow shine back brighter than before.
I'm always caught for a moment, stunned by their dazzling colours, even creased, worn, and bleached by sunlight as so many of them are, they stand out so perfectly against the stark wood behind them. The Wonderbolts in these posters are just about all nameless to me—I don't care for their names, names never mattered. But each pony is caught with their wings spread wide, with naught but clouds and sky around them. So fierce and tense are their smiles that I can't help but wonder what it could be like. That moment.
Those colours, blue and yellow, they mean more than just the Wonderbolts to me. They mean the expressions on those other ponies' faces. The colours are freedom in the open air, and the comforting embrace of sunlight. The colours are bravery, speed, and all the things dreams are made of.
Below the numerous, worn posters, a stray glare of light always catches my eye. A new wooden picture frame holds a sheet of glass, smooth and perfect, behind it and the glare, I can make out another form. She's a pony I could never forget, even if she's eclipsing the sun, her proud silhouette would always be enough.
My eyes settle upon the picture of Rainbow Dash. She's caught falling, her wings spread from her side effortlessly. The pure bliss with which she falls through the sky never ceases to amaze me.
How could somepony be so perfect in a single instance? While the posters may be what the stuff of dreams are made of, this picture is the dream. It's what I hoped to be.
It kindled something inside me, when I first saw the picture. I hadn't ever felt that way before. It was an urge to know what it was like, to be in that moment. It was something beyond just curiosity. It was fascination. What does it feel like to fly like that? What does it mean to be free? How can I do that?
I still want to know.
I've tried flying on my own. I spread my wings and flapped them madly until I collapsed from exhaustion, and I gave up that day. It was hard, the hardest, most frustrating thing I'd done. But the next day, I saw the picture again. Rainbow Dash, she was so at ease, so sure, and so unwilling to be anything other than what she was in that moment. And there was that feeling again, it hurt worse than my aching muscles had. I knew I wasn't trying hard enough. I wasn't trying as hard as Rainbow Dash had, so I kept at it. I pushed and pushed and pushed, as hard as I knew how.
With every beat of my wings I could feel a mounting doubt weighing down upon me. I wasn't getting better. I could hear the voices of those fillies mocking me for trying, they were certain I would never succeed, they gave words to my doubt. So I looked to my friends, and they only asked me to stop.
But if I stopped, how could I ever know what it felt like to wear that expression? If I stopped, how would I know that feeling of freedom? I want to know it, even for just a second. I have to. For just one moment.
So I pushed on, through exhaustion and pain. If I stopped they'd be right, my doubt would have won. I couldn't let that happen. Rainbow was the most determined pony I knew. If I wanted to reach that dream, I'd have to be just like her.
But I did stop. When she arrived, her free and unbridled grin was absent. Only a concerned and sad face looked at me. Her chromatic mane was still upon her head, and her wings were loosely scrunched to her sides, twitching with unease. In that moment, she wasn't the mare in the picture anymore. She wasn't.
“You're you, and I'm me. Scootaloo, you don't have to be like me,” she'd said.
Of course I don't have to be like her. Dreams aren't like that. It's my choice isn't it? But what if I do want to be like her? What if I want to know what it feels like to be somepony who can do something that they love, somepony who can ride the skies freely? What if I want to be able to keep pace with her? To fly alongside her? To be her equal and share in what she loves to do? To share that moment... What if that's my dream? What if that's what I want?
I take a good look at the picture, flaring in the morning sunlight. Who is she? How can I be like her? How can I experience that moment? Never has the picture seemed more distant, or more beautiful to gaze upon.
Am I supposed to give up on this? After all the hours I've spent, am I not good enough? If I didn't feel that pressure of doubt, would that have made the difference? If I could fly... wouldn't she be cheering me on? Shouldn't she encourage me to try and reach that dream even now? Why would she say such a thing?
'I don't have to be like her'? I don't have to have this dream? Isn't that backward? We were always told to find our dreams and chase them down. These posters and these pictures, isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Shouldn't she want me to have this dream?
I do have it, and I can see it so clearly. I know what I want, and I'm reaching out touch it, but the glass holds my hoof back. In this moment I'm reaching for it—I always have been since I saw it—but it won't reach out past its frame. It won't meet me halfway... After all, it's just a dream... and dreams can't be reached. So, what's the point?
In this moment, she's left me shattered. And every day, I wake up from my dream to see discoloured wood, where posters once looked down upon me. And my eyes are drawn to my bedside table where her picture remains, caught in sunlit motion, blurred from my tears, and cracked from shattered glass.
Every day, I wish I still had a dream.
End
Author's Note
A piece inspired by two things: Firstly, Midnight herald, whose work has left me wondering how he can create such powerful character pieces in so few words. Secondly, Rameslack's beautiful artwork that I used for the cover.
Art that inspires art is a beautiful thing.
