Why? I know that is what you are all thinking. It's certainly what I would be thinking, if one of you were to ever do something like this. Why? Why would I do this? For that matter, why would anypony do this, period?
I am afraid I must leave you with one final disappointment, because I do not know why, exactly, I am choosing to do this. That is to say, nopony ever lacks a good reason for committing suicide, but having that reason and articulating it are two very different tasks. I realize, however, that I do owe you girls some sort of explanation. So while I can't put a reason, as such, into words, I will do my best to explain how I am feeling. Perhaps, if I do well enough with that, you will be able to draw your own conclusions. I don't know.
Before I go on, though, I must say that while I don't know what my reason for doing this is, I do know what it is not. It is not because of anything anypony did to me. Not any of you, not Sweetie Belle, not my parents. Nopony had a hoof in this except Rarity, and Rarity alone. If I am belaboring the point, I apologize, but I feel that I can't be too careful. I know that guilt is inevitable when somepony takes their own life, and so anything I can possibly do to assuage that feeling is my duty to my friends and family. So, one last time: this is my choice, and nopony else's.
Now, I promised to tell you how I feel. The first and most prevalent thing I feel is exhaustion. Ponies may not think it to look at me, but I spend most days in an unbearable state of lethargy. My limbs feel leaden, and my head feels slow, cloudy, and sluggish. Surely you girls had noticed the difference in me, these past few months? Nopony said anything, but the change was abundantly clear, even to myself. It must have been painfully obvious to everypony else. I spoke a bit more sedately, did I not? A lot more likely to turn down an invite to a party, or a dinner, or what have you, wasn't I? Again, I apologize if you ever thought this was a reflection on you. I assure you, if I had had the energy, every last one of your invitations would have been accepted with gusto.
Alas, it wasn't that easy.
Ponies often talk, after a hard day of work, about being weary in their bones. I would love if my weariness were only skeleton-deep. It goes beyond—far beyond—that, however. I am weary not only in body, not only in mind, but in my very soul. Do any of you know what that is like? I think not, but I don't begrudge you for it. I would not wish soul-weariness on my very worst enemy. I will do my best to describe what it feels like, though mere words are hardly enough to do it justice. It is the feeling that, though you are a young mare, your soul is as old as the sun itself. It is not being able to fall asleep for hours each night, though you beg your mind to shut down and allow you a little peace. And when you finally do start drifting off to slumber, you utter a fervent prayer, to whatever deity cares to listen, that you will never wake up, because you simply do not know where you will find the energy and the willpower to make it through another day of life.
That is soul-weariness, and I defy anypony to live with it as long as I have, and not begin to see suicide as the more humane option.
And that's only one feeling…
In the rare times when weariness is not plaguing me, an equally bleak emotion settles in its place. That emotion is, simply put, inadequacy. To be more specific, artistic inadequacy. I could almost bear this life if my art would continue improving. For most of my life, I saw myself becoming a better fashion designer by the day, and that simple fact made everything else worthwhile. But for the longest time now, I have not noticed any improvement whatsoever, and that kills me. It kills me to know that I am as good as I am ever going to be, and furthermore, to know that as good as I'll ever be is nowhere near good enough.
I can hear your protests now. “Rarity,” you say, “your designs were featured in a royal wedding, in boutiques all over Equestria, onstage in Manehatten and Canterlot… how is any of that not good enough?”
To that, I can only say that I am not blind to the honors my fashion has received, but that external recognition and internal satisfaction are not always related the way they seem to be. I am nothing but flattered that other ponies continue to find beauty in the things I have made, but those same things have ceased to bring me happiness. I don't know how I can go on with that feeling in my heart.
Applejack, what if Sweet Apple Acres stopped making you happy?
Fluttershy, what would you do if one day, you suddenly fell out of love with helping animals?
I think you can see where I am going with this. I have somehow lost part of my essential self, and that's a loss that anypony would find it hard—or, in my case, impossible—to live with.
(By the way, I just remembered: Fluttershy, I hope you will take care of Opalescence. The poor dear won't understand where I've gone, and she'll need somepony to look after her.)
The last feeling I have been dealing with, that I need to make you aware of, is loneliness. Of course, I don't mean to suggest that you girls have been bad friends. On the contrary, you were all a mare could ask for in this life, and much more besides.
The problem, as always, was me. I believe the lonesome state I find myself in relates back to the exhausted condition of my body and soul. The more weary I was, the less I allowed myself to socialize with anypony. The less I socialized with anypony, the more isolated I felt. If anything, I was I who was the bad friend. I feel like an ungrateful brat, to have such amazing ponies—and, lest I forget, one very special dragon—in my life, and to leave them so suddenly, and so selfishly.
I can only hope you will forgive me.
I write this sitting at my vanity, surrounded by all the things I used, in life, to make myself pretty. Now, at the bitter end, I feel I can barely look at myself. But I know I must, one last time.
I hold two things in my magic—the quill I am using to write to you, and a pair of scissors. I always make sure to keep my scissors impeccably clean, and very sharp. That makes it easier to make straight cuts in bolts of fabric. And, thank Celestia for small favors, it makes what I am about to do that much easier, as well.
I have invited you girls to tea in about an hour, but—and here I'll have to beg your forgiveness one final time—that is a ruse. My true intention is to make sure that my body is found by you, and not Sweetie Belle. I know it will hurt you girls to find me, but not as much as it would absolutely shatter my darling little sister. I am not afraid to die, but I am afraid of hurting Sweetie Belle any more than is necessary.
Now I am looking in the mirror on my vanity, holding the blade of the scissors to my throat. The pulse beating there is frantic, like a rabbit cornered by timberwolves, as though my body knows what is going to happen.
All that remains is to make the cut. I won't deny that the thought of the pain gives me pause, but now I ask myself: Which will hurt more, dying or living? The response comes back instantly—living. This has to be done.
There. The cut is made. It did hurt, but nowhere near as much as I was fearing. The blood is positively leaping from my throat. It is a most unusual shade of crimson. I think
