In Which Our Favorite Six Pastel Ponies Ask the Big Question.
I was writing my latest report to Celestia when a stray thought made me stop.
Is this what I'll be to her? Just words on paper? Is that who I am? It made me stop, true Celestia will be around long after I am gone, she is a constant, an unwavering pillar. Where as I am simply a blip, only to be memorialized by words, be it the description of the stained glass in Canterlot or the words I had been writing. I needed a moment to think.
"You know what Spike," I turned around to look at my assistant, he would be around much longer than me too. What was I to him? "I think this can wait until morning, you can go to bed." Spike nodded and walked out, making a beeline for the bedroom. He knew the look I almost undoubtedly wore at the moment, he called it my "drop it and think" look.
Now I looked at the room, carved from the inside of an ancient living tree. It would be around longer than me too, it seemed to hardly take notice. Of course it was a tree and couldn't think anyway, but if it could it would probably be rather ticked at the fact that it had a bunch of creatures moving in and out of it all day. But in exchange I took care of it, making sure it was healthy, was that what I was to the tree? A helpful lodger?
And what about Spike? What was I to him, a Sister? Friend? Caretaker? I could always just ask him, there was ample opportunity, I had the rest of my life. But what is my life in the grand scheme of things? I realized my thoughts were spiraling out of control and decided that I needed some professional help with this matter. I turned to the shelves, my paper bound friends from before I had flesh and blood ones beyond Spike and my parents. Hopefully they would help me at least put my thoughts in order, help me put things into perspective, sort out which of these thoughts were most important. I needed to make a list.
Before long the air around me was choked by the sound of flipping pages, luckily I could still remember how the Dewey Decimal System worked through the haze of activity in my mind. The books around me were all psychology texts, from seasoned professional's life works to student's papers. I was looking for something that would stick out, something I could focus on. The answer almost brushed by me unnoticed until I looked at the author. The other books re-shelved themselves under gentle promptings from my magic.
"Existential Crisis, A Navigation Guide by Princess Celestia." I read aloud. That was odd, Celestia had never told me she had written anything pertaining to psychology. And why existentialism? She was permanent, what cause would she have to investigate a topic that pertained solely to those who's time was limited? It was very thin, more of a hard covered booklet, the binding was old and slightly rotted, I would have to rebind it later. I opened it and started to read.
To any who may read this text, I'm willing to bet you're confused. What need would an immortal have to study existentialism? It started with a question asked by one of my servants, he asked what he was to me. I told him how I saw him but he asked me more specifically, what importance did he have in my long span of years? Did he matter anymore after he was gone? I nodded, identifying quite well with the servant's question.
I didn't have an answer for him, and found myself unable to sleep that night. Plagued by his question, what do you all mean to me? You are all so small and so brief, why should you matter to someone like me to whom even dragons are little more than short friendships? I felt a worry-line appear on my forehead, this was taking a turn for the dark. I came to the conclusion that you shouldn't, what with the pain of losing so many to the blasted reaches of time, and slept rather soundly. But by morning the question was gnawing at me again, so I decided to run a series of mental experiments. I took leave of my post for a time, leaving authority to my more trusted councils, and took some of the more lonely guards with me. Making sure to pick those that would not be missed and would miss nothing. I blinked, what was she hoping to gain from this? And the phrase "would not be missed" gave me chills.
I disguised myself as a commoner and instructed the guards to act as my family, I made careful note to instruct them not to act according to protocol. If I was to blend in, my family needed to act like a family. I made sure to set a limit on how much time I could spend incognito, one lifetime seemed enough. And so began my test. I will not bore you with the details of an average life, although it was very nice to walk amongst the ponies without them falling at my hooves. I will simply say that I laughed, I loved, oh, did I love, I cried, and I died. Since you are reading this, I'll assume that you are in the midst of an existential crisis so I have put the list of things to do on the next few pages. I flipped the page. Emblazoned in the middle of the page were six words that took up the entire page. Ask, who are you, to you? There were a series of notes on the other page.
This is the biggest question to ask during an existential crisis, taking importance over all others. If you cannot answer this question to yourself than no one can. First you'll want to take count of all your traits, good and bad, but not physical mind you, then simply let them stew in your mind, let you tell yourself who you are. Although frowned upon in most situations, talking and responding to yourself out loud are encouraged. I placed the book onto the desk I had hardly noticed walking up to.
"Well," I started pacing, "I am a bit of a shut in, alright more than a bit. I'm rather over reactive, usually desperate to prove myself to my teachers and friends. I have trouble accepting things that cannot be explained by my current level of skill. I'm admittedly obsessive compulsive, more than a little neurotic. I have trouble relaxing and trouble reacting to unexpected circumstances." I frowned, the cons about being me were all I could seem to find, but then something started whispering in my head, presumably my subconscious.
"I am also very intelligent, powerful and a deep thinker. I can make connections that most wouldn't, I have a group of great friends, and a little brother that happens to be a dragon." I felt a smile tugging at my face. "I am the student of the single most powerful and wise being on the planet, I am a scholar and a scientist, I am me." My subconscious disengaged its link from to my mouth and I thought for a second. I am me? What did that mean, did it have to mean anything? No. I realized it didn't. It didn't have to mean anything to anyone but me. It couldn't be truly explained and for once, I was okay with that. I was me, and to me that's who I was. And I didn't have to be anything more; cause for all my flaws there were still ponies who cared about me just for that, because I was me.
I felt very satisfied, I yawned, the rest of the booklet could wait until morning. I climbed up the stairs and closed the door to my room.
In Which Our Favorite Six Pastel Ponies Ask the Big Question.
The squirrel had been sick, and now he wasn't. He was gone, just like all the others. As I scoop dirt over his tiny form, I take a moment to look around at all the other little graves I have made for my animals. There are so many of them, so many dozens of little lives, here and gone in four or five short years. I sigh, perhaps this is how the Princesses feel, watching so many grow old and die, while hardly changing themselves. I look back to where the Squirrel's, namely Russel's, children are sitting, sobbing quietly as they watch their father join their mother in the earth.
Their mother had always been a rather delicate little thing, she had died giving birth to them. Their father had come to me for help raising them, they needed things he could not provide alone. It is strange, I must seem like a fixture to them sometimes, something that is just supposed to be there, there aren't many of the smaller animals anymore that can remember a time when I wasn't nearby. I cast the thought from my mind for a while, to continue with the burial service.
Squirrels have a rather strange little ritual to burials that has always slightly baffled me. They take a tuft of fur from the dead squirrel's tail and then wait until all but the head is buried, they're very touchy about exactly when. Then they place the tuft around the deceased's head and finish burying them. They are very secretive about why they do this, every time I've asked they've either started ranting angrily at me, or started laughing before refusing to tell me. It's all very confusing, but it's their culture, so I have to abide by their rules when it comes to the dead. As his children tearfully place Russel's fur around his head I watch stoically, I learned early on that the one burying the body is supposed to appear stoic no matter what, they refuse to tell me why this is either.
The smallest treads carefully up to his father's corpse, leaning down, he chatters something in Russel's ear before placing the tuft of fur next to it. They all look up at me an nod, I scrape the last of the dirt over Russel's head. His children look at each other a moment, before nodding and going their separate ways, they scurry off into the woods. I turn from the graveyard, I need to do something to clear my head. I have a little project not many know about, a rock garden, there's just something about it that makes me feel good. I've been working on one piece for a week now, only one more part and I'm done. I found a boulder close to the edge of the Everfree yesterday, it's almost as big as me and just what I need.
Not many would peg me as the type to keep a rock garden, I know Pinkie was surprised when I asked her about it, and it's about as far from living creatures as you can get. But it's relaxing to work on it and rather beautiful to look at. I've spent many weeks working on it, finding just the right stones, arranging them just so. I've had an image in my head, for the last few days, of what it will look like when it's done and I'm almost there. As I walk past the trees, I look around for my boulder, last time something moved it from where I'd left it. Oddly enough, they moved it closer to my house, so it was helpful rather than bothersome.
There it is, nestled between an elm tree and a juniper bush, right where I'd left it. Squaring my shoulders, I push at the stone. Most would think that I wouldn't have much luck, considering my low wingpower, but wingpower isn't everything. A near lifetime on the ground, wrestling around with some of my more rowdy animals and running through tight underbrush to escape less cooperative beasts, have made my legs strong as almost any earth pony's. A gritty sort of noise fills the air as the rock pushes up soil in front of it.
Despite my original goal of clearing my mind, as I push the buzz of activity in my head only intensifies. Tossing about random words like, "Disappointing", "Unsatisfactory", and "Abandoning". Why? The first two are things that I'm familiar with, words that I often use in relation to myself. But why is "Abandoning" refusing to leave? I haven't been abandoned, I haven't abandoned anybody. So why won't it leave? Why does it hurt so much more than anything else my head is throwing at me? I find myself snapped back to reality as the boulder clears the treeline, jolting forward a little. I get a glimpse of where I started, the graveyard.
I'm going to die.
Not right now, but it will happen one day. I've always known that, why is it important now? Why do I suddenly find myself unable to move? I tear my eyes away from the cemetery, backing up to look at the boulder.
"Abandoning..." I breathe. And it starts to fall into place. I've outlived the past three generations of my animal friends. Of course I seem permanent to them, of course they see me as the stable element in their lives. But I will die, eventually I will leave them, abandon them. I throw myself back at the boulder with new found purpose and anger.
I'm going to leave them one day, one day one of Mrs. Rabbit's great granddaughters will have to go through labor without my comforting hoof, without me there to provide water or to numb the pain with encouragement. One day, one of Russel's children's children will have to bury their father without me there to preside over the ceremony. One day I won't wake up to the familiar sounds of chattering, chirping, churring creatures, one day I won't be able to help. I can't be permanent like they need me to be. I hear the boulder clunk against another large stone and stop. Looking up, I realize that I've managed to move the rock into place.
But do I want to be? I sit down, staring at the completed scene. The grey boulder serving as a mountainous backdrop for the rest of it. In front of the boulder are several smaller stones, situated to mimic rolling hills. Between them, a rut filled with gravel to simulate a river. And beyond that, a large, flat stone for a plain. These stones are permanent, or at least, as close as you can get. Do they have dreams? Hopes? Fears? No. They simply are. Just earlier I was wondering if Celestia felt the same pain when she looked out over a graveyard and realized she knew most of those in it by name. Could I withstand being permanent? Would I want to?
Angel Bunny spots me sitting by the rocks, cocking his head in that adorable way he always does when he's worried about me. He runs over to me, patting my leg to catch my attention. I look down at him, the unwavering pillar to the stem of wheat, and he looks back, concern etched into his face. He knows he won't always be there for me, I can see it in his eyes, but he doesn't care. He just sees the one who takes care of him is in pain. I scoop him up into a hug, he doesn't need to be a pillar to help me. So why do I need to be to help others?
I don't.
I can't always be there, I can't always help, but that doesn't make me wrong or bad. I don't have to be the pillar. I am my own being. I do have hopes, dreams and fears. I need to stop worrying about what I can't be, or could be and instead simply be. I am temporary, and that's alright.
