Dreams Cost Time

by B_25

Rating: teen
Tags: Sad, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Spike
Length: 1642

Spike casts his teenage thought.

Spike jots his thoughts on paper when no one will listen.

(Written when I almost dropped out of high school, Lola.)

Published 2016-01-19 14:50:06 UTC
Last updated 2016-01-19 14:50:06 UTC

But What's Mine Even Worth?

I have no clue what I’m going to do with my life.

        I’ve always spent it trying to impress others. Trying to ascend to that height that Twilight and the other Elements of Harmony stand on. To be someone that ponies want to look up to.

        I wanted to be a hero. But even in my story, I was a secondary character; only needed when the plot demanded it. But besides that, I was casted to wherever.

        I wanted to be a friend. Ever since I was born, Twilight has been everything to me. My mother, sister, friend, teacher, roommate. But I was none of these things. I taught her nothing; I showed her nothing. I was simply a drain, a waste of her time.

        I get excited when I talk. I want to speak to the whole world and have it listen to my thoughts, even if they don’t make sense. But, lately, I don’t need the world to listen. I just need someone who will listen.

        But who’ll listen to some dragon ramble? I guess ponies that care about you will, but even then, it feels like they have better things to do.

        Maybe the family will listen to my cries? But Twilight is a Princess, and all my friends are heroes. They’re busy with their lives; they’re wanted somewhere else, and, when they go there, they’re welcomed. I feel like wherever they go, they will be loved. Because they are them.

I don’t know whoIam. Maybe, I can be like them someday. Heck, at times of joy, I think I can become something greater. But then a wave of reality strikes; one that makes me realize once more that ponies are different, yet their differences is what makes them unique.

        Applejack is Applejack. Fluttershy is Fluttershy. When I say those names, a someone comes to mind. Someone you’d like to spend time with, to learn more about, even just to hug them.

        I like hugs. Especially with ponies – their fur feels good against my scales. I don’t like hugs where I’m the one at fault, though: when I’m the one needing a hug. I like long hugs, but I can only give goodbye hugs.

        Sometimes there’s a question for me. How is Spike today? Is he doing good? What is he up to? Twilight answers the question with the same answers: he is well. Never say someone is good, always say you are well. That’s what Twilight tells me.

        I hate Twilight. I love her, but sometimes I imagine her dead. Most than not, I’m the reason why she’s dead. I know I will never hurt her, but boy, sometimes my rage boils, and I can’t help but wonder how long it would take.

        If we imagine things, then I’d like to imagine that Twilight cares about me. Not on a superficial level, but Twilight cares for my soul. My body is taken care of, but I’m not sure if my soul is well. I like to think Twilight cares about me.

I mean, everyone is busy nowadays, so it’s fine if Twilight forgets about me at times. She doesn’t forget about me. She just…

        School is okay. I never actually went; I learned most things at home. But, to get a career, I need a degree. Those pieces of paper that tell you that you're smart; that you’re going places. I want to laugh; laugh at everything. The absurdity of it all. But I can’t. I laugh inside; I blankly stare outside.

        I may be screwed. It’s probably the reason why I’m writing this letter, but I’ve been slacking. You see, I like to think I’m smart sometimes, but I’m just an idiot. I read books and I’m decent with ponies, but I'm a fool. The reason why I’m an idiot is that I don’t know what smart is.

        I’m having trouble understanding things lately. Like what a plural is and other small tidbits. It’s so easy to learn, I tell myself, but my mind fails to capture it.

        I like stories. When I was little, my handwriting was terrific, so Twilight had me do mail for her. Sometimes she would ask me to write a story, I never knew why, but I complied. Those stories I wrote were probably terrible, but I think they were the most fun I’ve ever had writing. I never wrote on my free-time though, no. I had comics to read and other stupid things to try.

        I loved writing those stories. But I thought the greatest treat would’ve been Twilight reading them and telling me what she thought. I handed her the papers, but she didn’t seem interested. She told me they were great, but her words were hollow. It would’ve been fine if she hated it, but if she at least seemed interested in what I wrote, then maybe...

        Lately, with nothing else to do and everyone busy, I like to write stories. And they’re not half bad! Mind you, they all look terrible in my eyes. There's this charm that keeps me hooked. A magic I can grasp, but not quite hold.

        And the critters that come by likewhat they read too! I mean, Angel Bunny once peed on a story I liked, but some other critters still read it even with the pee on it. I wanted that feeling of someone else reading what I wrote, looking interested is what holds me the most.

        The critters that tell me what they thought are my best friends. Even if it’s something little, I feel so in debt to those to tell me what they thought. It makes me feel something that I wasn’t sure I had. I wish I could spend the day with these critters and talk.

Ponies aren’t the only ones who are busy. Soon the critters have to leave. And they will only come back if I’ve written something new: something I could be proud about.  But the words don’t come easy.

I started writing because it was fun and took my mind off of my nothingness. But it’s starting to become a job, and I already have one.

Then what’s the point of me writing? Why write when it’s like a job?  When the magic is done, and all you’re doing is stacking word after word. What’s the point?

But, the more I think about it, I guess I wouldn’t mind having writing as a job. I mean, I don’t mind working number one assistant, but that doesn’t pay enough bits to buy me a home. Long hours with little pay, doing things I don’t mind but don’t interest me. I guess writing isn’t such a bad thing.

Working from home, writing what you feel or things you’d like to see. Writing isn’t so bad – I just wish the magic were more constant.

… and this is why I’m in trouble. Getting off topic both in life and in work. Rambling gotta stop that. I don’t want to, but if I want ponies to talk to me, I gotta hide my insanity and keep my words to a minimal. I mean, that’s what I do when I write: cut as many words as possible. But in real life, it’s kinda hard.

Is it right to limit myself? I’m not sure, but I’ll do it anyways because I feel like I have to.

I hate it when ponies talk to me and then just drop the chat like it were nothing. I guess I shouldn’t get attached, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. And, with some friends, it feels like you need to book an appointment just to chat with. Like they decide if they’re going to talk to you or not.

… And I’m doing it again. Great! Now the REASON for my STRESS! This is the last week of school, and these booklets were assigned. I slacked off, thinking in the last month I could do them all.

I mistook the amount of books I had to do. Now, I have about a week to do them all. Add working with Twilight and other such things, plus, no one can know. This is something I need to keep to myself.

So why is it I find myself writing another story when my life depends on this school work. Why am I unable to care about what’s going to happen to me next?

Why can’t I see myself in my future?

        Curse these feelings! If this wave would’ve never happened, then maybe I’d be done a book by now. Even if it’s impossible, you still gotta try… right! RIGHT! RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT RIGH.

        I want to quit. But what will happen to me next? Twilight’s mad; everyone's’ disappointed. Not much different than any other day, Spike.

        I have a decent body. But maybe I should work out. I try, but I find it boring. I have some goals, but most of the time, I don’t feel like doing them. I don’t know what to do. I’m tired, and I feel like doing something.

        But I don’t do anything. And all that time is wasted. If I gave up writing, then I could just play games and do comics. I’d never have challenged myself, and I’d probably be happy. So why is it that I keep writing?

        There’s a rope under my bed. No one knows about it other than I. Before you ask, no, I never tried. But I always fantasize. Why is it death scares me at one moment but excites me the next?

        My name is Spike the Dragon. I have no clue what I’m going to do with my life, and I’ve stopped caring about what may occur. But I have one wish on my mind:

        I wish someone could tell me who I am.