As I look down these bedarkened streets, lit only by the guttering, flickering glow of a gaslamp and the curtain-filtered light of somepony's window, I feel a sense of disconnection. How can the day so sunny and bright, filled with so much vigour, and the promise of a better life to come, fade into something so weary and drab? Meaning no disrespect to our esteemed Princess of the Night – who surely comes to the fore at this time of the year – the night feels cold and lonely, lacking in any of the warmth that the day was only too happy to give.
Well, I say warmth. But when the day's highest temperature is still below freezing, can it truly be considered warmth? To a pony lulled into softness by the forgiving, hazy sunshine of summer and early autumn, and with the prospect of a fire-het living room to go back to, these conditions would appear lacking in any joy or heat worth having. But to those ponies, residents of the ginnels, alleys and backways, who are not unfamiliar with such hardships, the temperature ceases to have any real meaning. It is always cold. Some days may be colder than others. But when your home is a cardboard box and your only companion the rats of the gutter, it is always cold.
Nevertheless, as wintertime fast approaches one cannot help but feel a sense of foreboding. It is easy for some. Some ponies profess to enjoy winter, even to refer to it as their 'favourite season'. But as the tourist traps close for the season and the summer visitors make their final goodbyes, those living below the line can only be made more acutely aware of the disparity between their world and ours.
Ha! You think you know Ponyville, Canterlot, Manechester. But you see only the bright lights that welcome you, the posters inviting your custom, the indications of destinations galore. When ponies ask you about these places you tell them you know them, that you are familiar with them. But you see only half the story.
Behind the glamour, behind the glitz and the excitement, there lies a very different city. An alien city, a place you know of but pretend not to ignore. On your way to the festivals you cannot help but pass those quarters less well-endowed, the darker areas. Boarded-up shops and derelict warehouses, overgrown markets and long-forgotten thoroughfares. These are the preserve of those unfortunate enough not to live anywhere else, to have nowhere else to go. The fallen stars, the unlucky betters, the ponies who never even made it off the ground. Those with no food, no home, no hope.
Take a moment, as you pass the library, to seek out the Canterlot Archives. In here is kept every census ever taken in Equestria, from before the rise of the Two Sisters right up till the modern day. How many ponies are marked as 'no habitual abode', or 'unknown place of residence'? How many cannot give a name or tell from whence they came? And does anypony ever care? Even those you might know will, in time, be forgotten completely and utterly.
Yes, you read correctly. There are those in such straits as you may be familiar with. Did you never wonder what happened to Trixie Lulamoon after her flight from Ponyville? It was all over the papers, not only in that backwater district, but right across Equestria. She was a famous magician for a time, and her fall from fame was well documented. But does anypony know where she is now? Does anypony have the time to learn? No! No, of course they do not. She is gone, gone from the memories of those who have already moved on to new trivialities and new pursuits.
I know where she is. She is not so very far from me, a little warmer perhaps, but not so very much richer. We speak on occasion, whenever our aimless paths may cross. Homelessness has not been kind to Trixie. She is gaunt, thin, discoloured by lying for weeks on the hard, cold ground. After leaving Ponyville she had no luck as a magician and, eventually, had even to sell her cloak and hat to keep afloat. The proceeds from those are rapidly dwindling, and how long she will last, in this hostile city, I know not.
It might surprise you when I say that, as a group, the homeless are often quite well aware of what is happening in the world that, for the most part, totally ignores them. Rooting for hours through dustbins, seeking a few extra sheets of newspaper to keep ourselves just that crucial little bit warmer, keeps one in the loop, as it were. Oh, of course there are those who cannot read or write. But most have some learning down that avenue.
So I was quick to learn about the problems the fashionista Rarity has been having with her new boutique on Trottingham Court Road. Fancy, not being able to express her creative flair in exactly the way she wanted! What a hardship that is. I truly wonder how she copes.
I beg your pardon; do forgive my sarcasm. It is just that I cannot think of a single acquaintance of mine who would not give their left hoof for the difficulties that mare has. To be able to own her own shop, two shops! To be able to make her living in two settlements at once, almost entirely by reputation alone! To have the opportunities she has, the possibilities that are before her, the life that she leads. And to think that she is by no means unusual by Canterlot standards. . . it makes one quite envious.
There are those, of course, who do try to help. They set up foodbanks and soupkitchens, and arrange charity events to garner funds for the 'disadvantaged'. These are good ponies, who give of their own time to help those less fortunate. But they can't see, that can't know everything that happens under their very muzzles. The bearers of the Elements of Harmony, for all their good work in saving Equestria time and again, tend not to bother themselves with the simpler ways they could help. Fluttershy cares for her animals, Pinkie Pie lifts her friends when they are down, Applejack is always ready to aid an ailing comrade. But their scope is really very limited.
Even in Ponyville there are those who are crying out for attention, for assistance. I came from there, walking the entire way to Canterlot, hoping for a better life in the city. I knew a filly back in Ponyville, an orphaned pegasus. Unable to fly and living alone in the damp and dark, even her so-called friends never inquired as to her homelife. They can't know the awful things she had to do to maintain her own sorrowful existence. During my time in the town I became almost a father figure for her, someone to turn to when no-one else would listen. The tales she'd tell me. . . tales of trembling, dressed only in a stolen miniskirt, on the street corner. Waiting for drunken stallions to emerge from nightclubs, asking for the few bits she'd need for tomorrow's food in exchange for the horror of a night of torment. Crawling home, weared and ashamed, in the dark of the hours before dawn.
I saved. I saved all the bits I found, lying on the pavement or on the roadside. I took to begging outside the markets. I even attempted some petty theft, of anything that could be sold again for a small profit, before a near-capture put an end to that endeavour. Eventually, I had enough. Enough money to pay for that filly to live in a proper oprhanage, away from the fears, and the dangers, that are a necessary part of living below the line.
When I left Ponyville she was still there. I know I did the right thing, but it was hard to say goodbye. Ironically, the matron wouldn't even let me visit her. Apparently I might try to 'take advantage of her'. I don't mind too much. She was only doing what she thought best and, quite honestly, I understand her reservations about me. I wouldn't trust a ruffian like me with a dead parasprite, let alone a vulnerable filly. I hope she is happy.
Ah, well. Here I am, reminiscing, when I could be warming myself by the brazier some thoughtful soul has placed in the town square. You see, it's little things like that as make a pony feel there is some hope, after all. It may be difficult, it may be hard to push on when all the world seems against you. But, every now and again, somepony will do something, just a simple, little thing, which encourages you to keep going, to battle against the odds. Just as I played my part in improving the life of that young pegasus, so too have others acted, sometimes unwittingly, to better my own situation.
As I look down these bedarkened streets, lit only by the guttering, flickering glow of a gaslamp and the curtain-filtered light of somepony's window, I try not to be bitter. Things may change. . . or things may not. Only time will tell. And I intend to be there to find out.
Author's Note
I'm not sure really why I wrote this... I blame Evening Star's Octavia: . A truly masterful piece of music.
