Author's Note
This is kind of self indulgent and sort of my way to vent about what I've been feeling a lot of lately without actually writing another venty depression blog post. I think it ends sort of abruptly and I'm not sure how much will really resonate or makes sense with others, but I think it was also kind of important for me to write.
Irrelevance
Fancy Pants could already sense the same feelings from the previous night begin to soak into him from the moment he had cracked open his eyes. In his large, lavish bed felt as though it was consuming him. Silky magenta satin sheets and large fluffy pillows that he buried half of his face in as he curled himself under the covers. He could still feel a chill against his hind legs despite the warm morning sun streaking in from his window and laying on the lower half of his bed. His head felt thick and hazy as though he were wading through leg high molasses just to form a coherent thought which wasn’t just to wiggle his hooves to keep himself from falling back asleep for another hour.
“Erugh,” Fancy Pants groaned and rolled onto his back. It was a struggle just to keep his eyes from falling back down with the almost iron grip his exhaustion still had on him. His mouth tasted dry. He hadn’t been able to fall asleep until very late the night before, and now he had woken up far before his body was ready.
Yet still, he had to get ready. Fancy forced himself to sit up and stare down at his carpeted floor which was such a mess that it made the fur on his spine tingle. Bits of torn fabric and bits of paper all with drawings scribbled out, some more elegantly than others, blanketed the floor to make it look not to dissimilar from a child’s room in desperate need of a clean. He hated the filth of it all, yet closed his eyes when he stared too long as he couldn’t even begin to think of cleaning it all right now.
Fancy grabbed his red robe and covered his body. It only went halfway down his body, it’s large furry black collar tickling his neck, and felt cold to the touch of his skin after laying on the floor so haphazardly all night. He shuffled out of his bedroom and away from the mess that made his stomach turn and to the kitchen. The thought of making breakfast crossed his mind for only a moment before his stomach seemed to cry out in protest and he decided just on coffee. He usually liked it black, but today it tasted bitter and burnt.
Fancy Pants sighed and laid his head on the dining room table where he had been sitting in silence for the past several minutes. He knew he looked a mess, and if anybody from the tabloids saw him like this one of those filthy gossip magazines would eat him up in a minute for letting himself go. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. He hadn’t showered in… he thought it was two days, but it might have been three by now. His hair was a disheveled, greasy, curly mess which he had to constantly brush out of his face because he hadn’t used hairspray in so long. He sat up, but more hunched over the table, and took in a deep breath.
Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Fancy Pants had produced anything of value. The last thing he had made with his own two hooves had been an Autumn gown with shades of orange and scarlet all striped together. It wasn’t anything special, just filler. But since Winter had come and the first flakes of snow were already piling up on the streets of Canterlot all the tabloids and markets had stopped trying to pitch that dress, and as such the Fancy Pants name had gone unheard of in nearly a month. His hooves squeezed at either side of his mug when he thought of that. That same tight feeling in his chest that had been bothering him for days flared up again.
Fancy leaned back, his stomach turning already at the half mug of coffee he had downed. He didn’t feel like finishing the rest so he pushed himself back and began to pace slowly in circles on the blue and white tiling of the kitchen floor.
“Snowflakes are too common,” Fancy Pants mumbled under his breath in thought. “White… white is so boring, easy to stain, ponies won’t buy it… Maybe blue… No, wait, Hoity Toity just had a blue design out.”
These thoughts all jumbled around in his mind until Fancy had to stop and push at either side of his ears with his hooves until his head felt squeezed. Nothing formed a solid picture in his mind. Nothing felt good enough to motivate him to go back to his room and face that desperate, ugly mess he had made the night before after allowing these same thoughts to consume him. Any progress he might have made in his own thoughts this moment was dashed with the anxiety that flared up within him.
Three weeks. He thought of that time again. It didn’t seem like long, but the start of a season was a very important time. Fashion had to change, dresses had to adapt to fit the new styles. Fashion was an ever-changing environment where now was the time he felt as though he had to act just to get people to remember his name. He let those thoughts scare him for just a moment as he bit at his lower lip and closed his eyes again only to groan loudly.
Fancy Pants left the kitchen, the stench of coffee alone making his belly moan in pain. He tried to remember the last time he had gone to a party. Moreover, he had tried to remember the last time he had even been invited to a party. He played with his hooves just trying to distract himself from those feelings and ended up hurting himself by accidently tugging too hard on his fur. He winced, and settled them back down as he focused on keeping his breath under control.
Fancy thought about the praise he had gotten in the past from his design choices. He was always known as bold and a trendsetter, yet now he almost felt as though he were being left in the dust as his age crept up on him. Thirty-eight wasn’t so bad, but each day it seemed more and more young and energetic ponies flooded the game with their ideas which Fancy had never even considered only to see them dance around the front covers of magazines for days on end. The public had gotten too used to Fancy’s designs, and too used to his style and almost expected certain things from him now. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been on the front cover of any of those magazines.
Fancy squeezed his hooves over his ears again. He was sitting in his hallway, aware beyond reason his thoughts were becoming irrational and fear-inducing again. He tried to breathe out but it was very nearly shaky with nerve. He wanted to work. He wanted to create something that would make ponies excited and happy and put him into the spotlight like never before. He had been there time and time again, interview after interview of just how he had set the grounds for the trends of the year. He had always been bashful with the praise, yet never turned it away.
It felt like a drug. A horribly addicting drug of praise that allowed itself to momentarily make him feel joyful. People talking about his work and sharing their thoughts. Seeing them with his dresses on the street going to big, extravagant events knowing they would get compliments and ask where in Equestrian they had bought such a thing. Fancy craved that sensation again so badly. He craved his muse to return with a dozen ideas, yet the longer it stayed away the longer those feelings he had once felt began to fade. Compliments of the past felt as though they were turning to rot and became meaningless, nothing fresh or new. Fancy Pants felt scared again and tried to force away those thoughts but they were already in his head.
Fancy ran his hooves through his long, blue hair and breathed in an out. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at his pale yellow wallpaper striped with white. He tried to remember the last time he left his house. Three days ago, perhaps? Or maybe it was five. He didn’t feel ready to face the world yet. He swallowed hard and realized a lump had been forming in his throat.
Fancy Pants let his eyes wander back to the doorframe of his bedroom. A small red silk strand was sticking out, and he could see in the doorway part of the mess. He still didn’t have any sort of idea what he wanted to make, let alone if he was feeling creative at all. He wandered closer to the room and settled his hoof on the frame of the door to glance in. He picked up one of the crumpled papers and glanced to the design he had half finished before scribbling it out realizing it was a half-baked idea and not thought out enough to finish. He remembered back when he was younger and first getting into fashion. Back before any pony knew his name. Back before anything was expected of him. He would sometimes spend hours in the fabric store with so many thoughts in his head and only so many bits on him that he didn’t know which design to go with. He felt in a way jealous of that past self, the one who seemed to create for passion instead of fear of…
Fear of what, exactly? Fancy Pants thought of this as he reached for one of the strands of fabric he had half cut before tossing aside and began to messily ball it up in his hooves. He thought of what scared him most right now and that was of ponies forgetting his name. The great, trendsetting Fancy Pants who was the life of parties and kind to all. That’s how ponies saw him. That’s how he liked ponies to see him. The fear of irrelevance crept up his spine again and began to tickle at his nerves as though taunting him so badly he couldn’t he ignore it. He realized shamefully just how badly he feared this. If he never worked again he would become a nobody, and his passion would all but fizzle out. He was terrified in that moment that if he took too long to produce another gown or suit or anything of the sort that perhaps it meant when he finally did feel inspiration again ponies would have already moved on, and his ideals as a trendsetter might very well have been passed over.
What was worse, he couldn’t ignore the thoughts. His mind constantly roamed to the ideas of collars and trims and designs. None of which matched or could be made into a full design. Just snippets of ideas which only seemed to taunt him. His mind was wired to work like this, to constantly look for inspiration for a design in anything from a beautiful painting to the tacky, ugly look of his hallway rug.
Fancy Pants felt his eyes sting so he closed them. These thoughts were toxic and horrid like a pain he couldn’t ignore. When he breathed he was scared it might shake and reveal just how much this vicious circle was really getting to him, but was shocked that it came out steady. He lifted his head and stared up at the lights in the ceiling. He knew these thoughts would stay, even if he tried to relax and pretend like these fears weren’t real. He knew they would be lurking and strike when he wasn’t thinking. It would hit him hard with guilt, asking him over and over why he wasn't working and...
Fancy had to stop his thoughts by letting out a harsh whinny. He opened his eyes and stared at the carpet.
Maybe… Maybe if he just took a walk, then he would be able to work again. Clear his mind, think about something else for a bit, as impossible as it seemed.
Anything to stop berating himself for not working.
