Late Night/Early Morning Ramblings

by Spaslan

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Roseluck, Original Character
Length: 1974

An author rambles in his insomnolent state of mind. These are the documents he wrote. The first one touches matters such as romance, insomnia, and writing.

An insomnolent author rambles throughout the night.

These are the documents he wrote.

The first document touches matters such as romance, insomnia, and writing.

It is advised that you read this with the "light" background first, then with the "medium dark" one.

Written because of insomnia and boredom.

More chapters may arrive.

Published 2014-07-30 21:30:02 UTC
Last updated 2014-07-30 21:30:02 UTC

The First Published Document

Late Night/Early Morning Ramblings
By Spaslan

So. Here I am. Sitting by my typewriter again. At four in the morning or night. Whatever. Ugh, sometimes I think there’s something really wrong with me. I really want to sleep, to be fresh in the mornings. I want to experience that joy of waking up and knowing you had a good night’s sleep. Guess that isn’t for me then.
What is for you then?
Insomnia, they call it. The fact that you can’t sleep properly and stay up until gods know when, and then you just pass out from exhaustion. I could mention a couple of times that has happened to me. But another thing that bothers me about this, is that I never recall any of my dreams. I might have dreamt I was some sort of, I don’t know, buccaneer sailing the seven seas, raiding the occasional village for their candy canes, if they had any. Or maybe I dreamt of being a dragon, of soaring through the skies and breathing fire. All I’ve got is this horn on my head and the brain in my skull. Not that any of them have been of much productive use lately.
What do you mean?
I haven’t really been working as hard as I feel like I should. Every time I sit down by this stupid typewriter, knowing full well I should be doing what I love, I feel something pulling me away. It’s not that I don’t have any ideas to write about, gods above, no! I have plenty to choose from, and more crazy twists, turns, and plots are developing in this crazy head of mine. But… I just haven’t been able to write it down. Like I’m some sort of marionette believing to be in full control of my motions, but at the end of the day, the big bad puppeteer just pulls the invisible strings and throws me away from the typewriter and onto the couch again. I should get a cup of coffee.
You do that.
Okay, I’m back at the typewriter. I’ve got my coffee – the Golden Sun blend from Califoalia, the good one. It usually helps me with getting up in the morning, but that’s normally after I’ve had an hour or two of exhaustion-induced coma. So here I sit, sipping my coffee – my scaldingly hot coffee – trying to think of something to write, but all I can do is continue writing on this piece of paper. Maybe I should do just that?
Why not?
I mean, is it what you expect a writer to do? Sit in front of his typewriter and sip coffee, while his brain is unable to procure any form of creation or creativity? If you ask the common book aficionado if he or she was okay with his/her favourite writer just slacking off when said writer should be crapping himself from the fear that this might very well be his last cup of coffee, would they then say, “Yeah, sure”? For some reason, I find that very hard to believe.
And why is that?
It’s hard to satisfy ponies. If your book is good, then they’ll sing songs of praises greater than the ones made for Celestia, and she’s been running this place for who knows how long. But if you make a mistake, one small plot hole, or mentioning an item that’s never seen again, or some other dumb thing, then you’ll never hear the end of it. Heck, some will even demand you be crucified and burned and other… unmentionable things. But the thing is, you shouldn’t let something like that stop you. So they want you to burn, but do you know what that means? It means that those ponies, the ones that want to hurt you, are enjoying your book – your book – so much that they really care about the mistakes. They want you to improve as a writer, even if they come across as naught but brutes. You just have to take the good with the bad, and love all of them.
But if they’re so hard to satisfy, why continue?
I like to think of myself as a bit of a tough nut, you know? Well, not physically, I mean, I’m a weakling when it comes to that. But I like to think that I can withstand a lot of mental punishment. Probably has to do with how I was raised, I don’t know. I’m a writer, not a psychologist. Anyway, when it all comes down to it, I think I keep writing because it’s fun. If I went back in time and told eight-year-old me that I would love writing stories, then I would probably call myself completely bonkers. Or is that how that one goes? No, wait, it’s if you went back… ah, forget it. It’s a bad joke, and I should be ashamed for even writing it right now. Even if it’s five in the morning now. Or night. Depends on your point of view, I guess.
Does time really matter?
I don’t know. Does it matter? I’d guess it does, since it’d be hard for us to go about our usual business if we didn’t have a way to structure our days. Time fits that role perfectly. And it does depend on your point of view, both mentally and physically. I mean, if you’re a night owl, then it doesn’t bother you as much that it’s five in the morning than if you were an early bird. Likewise, the planet has different time zones, and they play a part in what time it is for you. While it’s five o’clock in Canterlot and the princesses are sipping their late afternoon teas, it’s ten in the evening in Hayjing and they’re all getting ready for bed. Time is relative to your position, but then again, it isn’t. It flows with the same speed, in the same direction, always. We may feel that it’s different when we compare places, but isn’t that just the positioning of Celestia’s giant mass of burning gas? No joke intended. Just leaving that there in case the princess ever reads this. As if she is going to anyway.
Why wouldn’t she read this someday?
Who am I kidding? Myself, obviously. Why would Princess Celestia, or any of the princesses for that matter, even read the words I write? They have all been lowly, pitiful acts that I love with my whole heart, but they’ve still been horrible. Even if I die, right now, no one would even care to read the midnight ramblings of a writer high on coffee. Oh, and I brought another cup. Thank you, me. Oh, not a problem, me, it was my pleasure. I’m rambling again.
It’s actually quite cute when you ramble.
I should stop rambling so much. But that’s not going to happen anytime soon. There’s too much on my mind, too many possibilities to consider – I just have to ramble. If I don’t, then think of all the ideas I would lose!
Oh dear.
Indeed, the mere thought of losing all of these gold nuggets is horrifying in itself, even if I think they’re all as horrible as the last one. Instead of stopping the rambling, I should probably stop criticising myself so much. I’ve been doing it a lot lately, and everypony I meet tell me that it isn’t good for me. Even the twins running the spa in town. What are their names again – Honey and Rose? No, that’s not it. Anyway, even they are telling me how it’s bad for my mane and fur and whatnot. I don’t visit the spa that much, but I do visit from time to time, if just to better my personal hygiene slightly. It is relaxing to be there, and it has been helping slightly on my insomnia. Now I can sleep two hours consecutively – sometimes even three – before waking up and making these late night ramblings. Sometimes they’re even early morning ones, or caught in between like this one. I should probably think about either going back to bed and try sleeping some more, or just getting ready for the day.
You should.
It is getting rather early, though, and I’ve hardly slept this entire night. My psyche is probably going through a lot of pain because of these ramblings, but they help me clear my mind, make think of other things so I can sleep better. But then again, as they help me think everything through, it truly does become everything.
How so?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and no, not just about stories. I have other things to do than that, you know? And I just remembered that I’m typing by myself, for myself. I’m the only one who’s going to read this, so everything here is really just so I can make something better for the next book. Might as well come to terms with what’s recently happened.
Oh, do tell.
So, a week and three days ago – yes, I just checked my calendar – Roseluck left me. I don’t know the what or the why, but that’s what happened. Just a note on the kitchen table one morning that read something along the lines of: “You might as well pack your bags and go home ‘cause it over between us.” Still haven’t got the foggiest clue about why. Might’ve been something I said, or something I’ve done. Could be she found someone more interesting, and I wouldn’t put it past her. Everyone deserves to be happy, and if she wasn’t happy with me, then that’s alright. In a way. I mean, it still hurts. A lot. But maybe it was for the better. Damn, I can’t even sit here and type about it without my eyes getting annoyed. I should probably sort out my feelings before talking about it.
Well, how do you feel, then?
I’m angry. Not entirely because she left me, but more because of how she broke up with me. I mean, I had a meeting to go to, and I couldn’t be late for that. I couldn’t wait around for her to come back, so we could talk it through. So I could know why. I’m left in the dark here, and I don’t like it. I could always seek her out, ask her why, but I doubt it’d bring either of us anything but more hurt. And I get the feeling that neither of us wants to salt the wound too much.
Point taken.
Oh look! My cat’s joined me in my insomniac ramblings.
How nice.
Wait… when did I get a cat?
Say what now?
Okay, back at the typewriter. It’s been half an hour. It took thirty minutes to get that stinking cat out of my house. I’m not even sure how it got in here. Maybe I left a window open. Didn’t bother checking. Not much crime happens around here. It’s kinda like the Frozen North pre-Sombra. Some historians say it was their too trusting nature that made Sombra’s conquering of that place so easy, but then again, they’re the same ponies that preach about us having to be more trusting than we already are. Now that I think about it, I should probably start investing in some security measures, like locks and such. I’ll take a round through the house, see if there are window’s open, and then go to bed again. I should at least try to get some sleep.
You do that, dear.
So have a good night, me. Write to you again tomorrow.
I wish you could see what I write now and then. We could have such wonderful conversations.

Author's Note

No editing has been done on this chapter.