When you realize you have failed

by KatherineCourageux

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, Sad
Length: 1037

Every artist, wether they're a painter, or a writer, always feel like their work in incomplete. This can depress them greatly and blind them from the beauty every piece of works has, making the artists' forget how special they really are.

Art, it's something everyone is best at, wether you're a human, a pony, or a simple insect. The world is art. Every little piece of the universe is a piece of art for others to enjoy. But just because a piece of work is enjoyed doesn't mean the creator is always happy. More often than not, art can leave you frustrated, no matter how beautiful your work is. It doesn't matter how much praise you get, there is always something about art that leaves us feeling, just a little bit hollow, and sometimes those feelings can blur out the good things our art brings us, to the point we never realize… We were always special.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-08-04 17:00:05 UTC

You forget that you are special.

When you realize you have failed.

(You forget that you are special)

By

EvilDemonNeko

Applebloom stared at the canvas she had filled. A beautiful mix of blue and mint green were blurred together in a clear ocean in front of a sunset, the sky a purple and orange rainbow of simple, yet gorgeous color that formed around a bright yellow ball, barely peeking over the oceans horizon. The clouds on the left, a fluffy detailed white and gray. The clouds on the right, gray and black. From the black clouds, a  faint rainbow shot from them and into the ocean water, casting a beautiful reflection. The white clouds, on the other hand, shot lightning down at the ocean, causing the water to slightly splash up, and brighten to a light blue, nearly white color, as it too, cast a reflection. It had taken her hours, and she had managed to capture every. Single. Detail…

...It was perfect...

It was the symbol of what she thought good and bad looked like… Good came from bad, bad came from good. Life, to the young cream colored filly, was a give and take, which was why she chose, and swore on her life that she would always be a good little filly, and accept the punishment life would give her when she did wrong.

Applebloom, was indeed, with a few exceptions, a good filly.

But then why did she feel so bad?

As she stared down at her picture, she frowned, ear ears folded back. What would this painting be in the future? Would it hold it’s meaning?

Probably.

Would she cringe, and scoff at it in a week? A month? Never?

No, not never. she would laugh at this piece one day.

It was merely five minutes ago that she looked at it with pride, and joy. She felt, that she reached a goal in her art…

But then she remembered that this is exactly how she felt the other times she painted. She felt happy, only to look back and shudder at her bad work a week later. Yet here she was, painting again, knowing all too well this would look terrible to her in the future. Her friends loved her art, so did her family, so did her school. Even Diamond Tiara complimented her on it. Applebloom was a great artist.

She knew this.

But then why was she sad?

Was it because, she missed a spot she cannot go back and fix? Did she get the colors wrong? Did she, by some chance, copy another painting?

No. Not possible. This painting was perfect.

So terribly perfect... only soon, she knew it would only be terrible...

She didn’t want it to be terrible. She wanted to love it, and learn from it, to do better in the future.

But...Why bother with it, if she wasn’t already up to perfection?

Maybe that was the real reason behind her continuing to paint, to make herself suffer, cry, and punch the past canvas’. Maybe, a part of her wanted to grow, to get better, and to see the joy on the ponies faces every time she advanced her skills, even if she never felt it. But was it worth it? Were those few moments of seeing the joy and amazement on every ponies face when she showed her work off, going to matter in the future?

Maybe.

Would her art be loved by many, after she died?

Probably not.

But perhaps…

But it isn’t likely. She isn’t that good anyway. Someone will, and probably already has outshined her.

But would they be outshined as well? If so, what was their point? What did their art matter if it was going to be surpassed? What did her art matter if it was going to be surpassed?

Are her skills, really that important? Are the ponies she shown the paintings too going to even remember them when they’re older, and have a family of their own? Do they care?

These thoughts trailed through Appleblooms mind in an instant, even if it felt like she was staring at her painting for hours, just like before.

But she never cried. She felt hollow... she felt worthless.

She knew that that next time she paints, she’ll feel a little bit better. And soon she knows she won’t hurt at all. Maybe that’s the actual reason for pushing herself through the hell of feeling worthless in her art. She wants the pain to stop, and she knows she can quit- she’s tried. Yet, she found herself sketching at Three A.M every night, almost as if it was involuntary.  A part of her thought it was. Another part knew it was.

She shook her head, and sighed. She then slid out from the pick-nick table that was in the middle of the empty park. Applebloom gently picked up the painting in her teeth, sliding it carefully into her saddlebag, not caring if it smudged the paint. After all, she would do better in the future anyway.

She trotted  to school, and as usual, showed off her painting, this time getting more praise than she ever expected, it took her back, but she still felt bad. She made sure to keep her sadness tucked away, so no one would ask questons. When school finsihed, she took her painting home, she hummed a tune. It was not cheerful, nor sad. She wasn’t even listening to it. She just wanted to go to bed, so at Three A.M, she could continue to torture herself.

She went straight to bed that night, taking dinner to bed with her. She explained to Applejack she wanted to be left alone, and although hesitant, Applejack agreed to leave her little sister be.

She painted that night. This time much earlier than she usually did after waking from a nap. She dozed back off after four drawings, thinking nothing of them. Though it felt natural now; to keep herself up and drawing anything her mind could think of, she still felt a twinge of sadness in her.

...

She never noticed the brilliant flash of light that appeared once she dozed of, forever branding a paint pad on her flank.