All is dark.
A shroud of darkness leading into an eternal abyss eclipses everything in sight. Were there nothing at all, then I might have found some tranquility in simply existing in blissful ignorance.
That is not the case, however. Everything is out there, has always been there just beyond my sight, taunting me with an understanding I lack. All their mechanisms, which I have ever longed to grasp, hold my attention with all the fascination of a newborn child. If only I could.
Then light dispels the dark, continuing the rhythmic pattern that represents the only facet of 'life' I have ever known.
In place of the abyss, an array of sewing instruments floods my vision. They are strewn about haphazardly alongside a lovingly worn sewing station on the far side of the room.
I am kept off to the side opposite the door, where I have always stood and I expect I always will. Had I the capacity to will it otherwise, this is the last place I would wish to reside. My desire holds no sway over my rooted placement, however. I am cursed to stand forever upon this confounded pedestal.
That is because, in the end, I am nothing more than a ponnequin - a faceless pony lacking an identity to call my own.
Now that everything is in sight, I suddenly wish it all away. It tantalizes me, beckoning to me like the open sky to a Wonderbolt. I desire that which I cannot possess despite knowing the futility of it all.
The workstation alone is not what draws me in so much as what it represents. My owner makes it seem so different by comparison to my insufferable, stationary existence. Her workroom is so full of life! Everything about this place is an expression of who she is, even the merest mimicry of which I can never attain.
Just as I was ready to cast off all hope of there being anything more to my bleak existence, my owner steps into my dwelling. Her radiant, violet mane sways in response to her stride as her eyes sparkle with an unequivocal passion for her work. I long for this very essence of being, jealously regarding her movements and the life enabling them that she takes for granted.
As she reaches her workstation, the same place she passes most days, she dives straight into her craft. Her jubilance radiates from her like light from the sun with every piece of fabric she stitches together. She has become a pony gone mad, her forehooves nothing more than a blur supplementing the ceaseless workings of her magic.
Only as she murmurs something to herself and rises from her post do I break from my trance. She steps out of the room, only to return sometime later with the last parcel of a daisy sandwich.
“How uncivilized of me. Good thing nopony is here to see me," she says with a graceful smirk that fades as she regards her figure in one of the many mirrors her lifestyle affords her. "I really should take time out of my day for a proper meal." Her gaze turns to the unfinished work on her desk. "Right after this order.”
After she returns to her work, all is quiet aside from the dull hum of her sewing machine.
An intolerable amount of time passes, each minute of silence an agonizing reminder of my impotence. When she finally completes her labors, she stops for what is all too brief a moment to admire it.
All I can do is stare at her in wonderment: What is it like? She can move. She can speak. She can turn her gaze to whatever suits her fancy.
I find myself snapped out of my ruminations by my master’s movements as she drapes the dress over my back. The smile upon her face brightens, her eyes glistening as she gives herself an affirmative nod.
“After another excellent day of work, my latest creation is finished. This one is simply marvelous, even if I do only say so myself!" She looks at me for a moment, her beatific smile bringing only envy to my still heart. "You agree with me, don't you? After all, if you look this fabulous ... oh, I can only imagine how a real pony will look." She gives a squeal of excitement, not even knowing the pain her casual words have inflicted. "Once Photo Finish sees this, I just know she'll be unable to resist saying yes to my new line of dresses.”
She practically skips to the door in her eagerness. She gives the room one last rearward glance before flipping off the lights and sealing it once again in darkness behind her.
And just like that, the loathsome shroud once again takes me into its embrace. I know what this signifies: The end of day has come.
I am no stranger to this routine. Every day passes me by in this way, and each one of them is just as dull and abysmal as the last. I find myself wondering if there will ever come a point where I can break free of these shackles that bind me in place. Then, perhaps, I might finally come to understand emotion.
This is, of course, naught but empty conjecture.
I will never be free of this affliction. This doesn’t particularly affect me as much as it probably ought to.
Truth be told, I should be content. I am free of social ties. I am not shackled by the need to maintain the appearance, status, and relations one comes to acquire in a normal lifestyle. And yet, I feel anything but free.
What even is freedom? Is it this vague, unknowing expression of the fulfillment of one’s desires like an eagle spreading its wings? Or is it a mere thought, a period which punctuates an idea in a boundless, inescapable cage?
The more I ponder over this, the deeper I feel I entrenched in perpetual bafflement. I am nevertheless fixated on it as a moth drawn to a flame. I have spent many a night toiling away with effort in solving this very puzzle, its pieces blank as a foal’s flank.
If only....
“Psst.”
I can’t place the origin of the noise, though it is closeby. Cursed to be forever still, I can’t angle my head to get a clear vision of the entire room, but if the source is anywhere in sight, there isn’t any indication.
“Down here.”
Though the room is dim, I can see a potted plant shake frantically off to my right. Though it is rooted in place at first, my neighbour continues to fidget. The pot that represents its shackles wobbles in circular motions until it is firmly situated in front of me.
How does it move? Furthermore, how does it talk? I can only gaze upon it in helpless confusion, unable to give voice to my questions.
“I don’t know about you, but I find this dreadfully boring,” the plant says. “I’ve been here for all of thirty seconds, and all this standing around has my roots positively quivering to break free! How you’ve managed to put up with this appalling, tedious, and - above all - boring lifestyle for so long is beyond me.”
Before I can ponder the meaning of the plant's frustrated monologue, it shakes violently against the pot until the sound of clay bursting echoes through the room. The plant’s roots unfurl from clumps of dirt to suspend itself.
“Ta-da!” The plant pumps its bushy extremities into the air.
Silence fills the void for a time before it relaxes its stance.
“Oh phewy. You’re about as much fun as watching the paint dry after the Apple family builds a new barn.”
I am mesmerized by the plant as it takes flight and begins to morph before me. It becomes a mismatch of animal parts as it stretches to the extent of its length and closes the distance between us.
A pair of eyes rolls out of his head and down his arms to rest on his lion paw. They stare, cold and lifeless, right at me.
“It looks like you could use a new set of eyes.” When I give him no reaction, he rolls them in his hands and causes them to vanish from sight with a poof of smoke.
“If only we had something to liven the place up a little." Tugging at his beard, he gives the room a dismissive glance. "Aha! I have just the thing.”
He jitters with unbridled glee as he snaps his fingers. The room springs to life. Tapestries, spools of thread, and colourful materials float into the air, coalescing into a chaotic arrangement. More objects gather and begin to swirl around, faster and faster, until they explode outward in all directions. They move about on their own, crawling across the floor and furniture without any compunction for the organized chaos my owner tries so hard to maintain.
Then even the furniture is moving. The tables, chairs, and desk bounce up and down toward the center of the room, where they proceed to dance about excitedly.
This bizarre creature, who seems prone to delving into fantastical whims, spins around with a mischievous grin.
“Though you're not quite what I expected when I ventured into this ... oh, how did Rainbow Dash put it? ... ah, yes, 'frou-frou girly place', I can't help but quiver in excitement over the future in store for you." He does just that, a few pieces of his body falling off before he collects and snaps them back into place. "It is one of pure chaos, I'm sure,” he adds with a wink as though I should have understood what he meant.
I abruptly take flight after one more snapping of his digits; brilliant sparks of light encompassing the full rainbow flash around me. Overwhelmed by the blinding effects of the light and the vortex of moving objects, I suffer over his inescapable hold over me.
My eyes find respite as a looming object intercepts the light. At first, I think it is one of my owner’s many possessions, but after adjusting to the sudden change in luminescence, I realize it is something far more intriguing.
I find the wooden leg in front of me to be bizarre. It bears resemblance to those of a normal pony’s, but there is no other pony to be seen.
The appendage seems to sprout a life of its own. Matching my thoughts precisely, it sways up and down and side to side.
I watch unblinkingly, mesmerized by the sight until a single word bubbled into my mind. A word I have long desired to experience rather than ponder as an abstraction:
Freedom!
Sparks of magic explode outward, bouncing about the room until even my former prison itself seems lively.
“Now that’s more like it!” the creature proclaims.
The overhead fixtures flicker to life with a snap, putting an end to the lightshow.
All at once, everything, including the dress draped over my back, drops unceremoniously to the ground. If not for the pole suspending me, I would have fallen off the base on which I stood as well.
“Discord! What in Equestria have you done to my inspiration room?” Rarity shrieks from the doorway. She stamps her hoof on a runaway bolt of fabric to prevent its escape. “Th-this is uncouth. In the name of all that is decent, cease this infernal charlentry at once!”
“I found the state of this room to be dreadfully boring,” the being I surmise to be Discord replies as he wraps himself about Rarity's body. “Being the good friend that I am, I decided to take it upon myself to fix it up. There’s a certain aspect of Feng Shui that only chaos can capture, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Feng Shui?” Rarity gasps, taken aback. She shoves Discord from her barrel. “There’s nothing Feng Shui about this at all!" She pauses to take a calming breath before fixing him in a smile that does not quite reach her eyes. "I appreciate your efforts, darling, but you simply must set everything back to the way it was this instant.”
“Oh where would the fun be in that?”
Having only just gotten used to this new development, I cannot let this opportunity for self-discovery slip past me. With my newfound liberty at my disposal - and the risk of its loss to motivate me - I shake against the last vestige of my confines: The very pole that keeps me upright.
I wiggle my legs to gain momentum and thereby tip the stand upon which I’ve been speared over my whole life, causing me to crash to the ground. At least the fall dislodges me from the pole, leaving the base to roll away.
“What was that noise?” Rarity asks.
“What noise? The sounds of somepony’s celebration are the only thing I hear.” Discord says right before a cloud of smoke enshrouds them momentarily.
When the vapor dissipates, they are both garbed in matching broad-brimmed hats made of a scratchy looking material and fake mustaches. A colourful fuzzy animal made of a similar material is suspended over their head.
A bat suddenly manifests itself into Discord’s paws, which he proceeds to strike the hanging animal with. As the bat connects, it explodes into a shower of rose petals all around them.
At the expense of my owner's sanity, my travels go undetected thanks to Discord's distraction. I struggle to get my four hooves under me, having to learn in moments how to perform that action I witness each day: Walking. This is not an easy process; instead, it is one that has me stumbling about the far side of the room as my master does after her fourth glass of wine. When my latest attempt causes me to come to a dead stop against the wall opposite Rarity's position, I find myself mere inches from an open window - my great escape.
“Discord, this is no time for a party or any of your games! I don’t mean to complain, but a lady must get her beauty sleep.”
I gather my wits for yet another attempt to get myself properly mobile. Carefully placing all four legs under my body, I leap for the window.
A rush of cool air strikes me all at once as I tumble onto the lawn. The open fields of Ponyville bask under a moonlit night. Many wonders await me just beyond the horizon, for the first time unbesmirched by the harsh reality of my imprisonment.
A moment passes before the reality strikes me with the force of Rarity's blue Pegasus friend: I am free.
Sparing a moment to look back into the shop, I see my owner is still arguing with Discord. A part of me wants to go back to her, for life with her is all I have ever known.
The mere act alone, however, surrenders the freedom I have just gained. Numerous thoughts and ideas plague my mind, none of which I can fully comprehend.
I instead spring into action and carry myself to a destination unknown. With each step I take, I am that much closer to boundless riches - a plethora of potential aspirations for me to seek beyond an existence of mere servitude.
There are a number of ponies along the path I walk, but many of them steer away from me for some unknown reason. I try to ignore their awkward scrutiny.
I am not entirely successful, however, until a building bearing striking features stands before me. Decorated in what appeared to be a multitude of various confectionaries, it easily stands out among the nondescript buildings nearby.
Its lights are still on. My curiosity piques to learn the secrets of its interior; like that moth, I peer into one of the windows framing the entrance.
The scene laid out before me is not a mystical dance like the one given at the Boutique, though it is just as lively in its own manner. Numerous interesting utensils bounce and jitter as one ensemble: A spoon whips something within a bowl, a metal monstrosity bellows smoke, and a bag explodes to release powder that shrouds the room in white.
The cloud temporarily hides the fascinating objects from my sight. Moments later, the shape of a pony bursts forth from the mist, the spectacle akin to that of a ghastly spectre rising from the grave.
The sight alarms me at first, especially the brilliantly blue eyes shining through the coat of white. They blink rapidly and then vanish as the pony wraps her tongue around her entire body. It then recedes back into her mouth to reveal a bright pink mare.
She flashes a smile from ear to ear and gives a soft moan of satisfaction, her very demeanour full of bubbling excitement. “Rarity will posilutely love this party cake for her new, top of the line dresses! And this new recipe is a blast.” The pony gasps, her eyes somehow getting wider than they had already been. “It might even be ‘divine’!”
As she bumbles away, I see in her an opportunity. The idea of opening a line of communication with a real pony had always been at the forefront of my dreams. The countless hours spent toiling away to find some means to open a line of inquiry with my master were an utter addiction, one I could finally satisfy through this mare.
If I were to communicate with somepony, what would our discourse be like? Would it affect our way of life in any manner? If so, what possible changes would our new bond bring about? Could it open my eyes and allow me to peer into the depths of my soul, if I even had one, and teach me about myself?
Only now does it occur to me that I could have sought the answers to these questions from my owner or any of the other passersby along my way here. If it weren’t for the chaos and sudden freedom distracting me, I imagine I might have done so.
I mustn’t allow my thoughts to linger any longer. Dwelling upon them doesn’t actualize my dreams any more than standing out here in the dark will.
The door opens to my touch. I steel myself and enter.
A bell rings, both announcing and greeting my presence. I am startled into stillness at the noise; Rarity has such a mechanism to alert her to visitors, but I was unprepared to encounter it here. The pink mare immediately leaps toward the front door, and, by proxy, toward me.
“Welcome to SugarCube Corner! How can I...?” Her words trail off as her eyes finally rest on me. “Hey, who put this here?”
She gives me a tap on the shoulder as though attempting to confirm I am not made of flesh. She seems to have an epiphany after just a moment of this, for she gasps and gives me a gleeful grin. “You wouldn’t happen to be animated by Discord’s magic to give you the ability to get up and walk out of Rarity’s boutique for the purposes of finding your true self and then coming here,” she stopped to take in a lungful breath of air, “to become my new bestest friend in the whole wide world, would you?”
I am at a loss for words. Somehow, without ever being told a shred of information, she is able to piece together the history of my evening up to this point. Even if she is not completely correct, I find myself baffled. How is she able to do that?
“Ha, I knew it! Oh, Mr. Ponnequin, you’re so silly. It’s my job to know everything about everypony - and every non-pony - in Ponyville, after all.” She wraps a hoof around my shoulders and drags me further into her abode. “I have a great idea. How about you try out Rarity’s super-duper delicious cake? It’s really melt-in-your-mouth-super-fantastically delicious!”
She bounds back to her layer of white mist and returns soon thereafter with a piece of the confection in question. The slice is then shoved directly toward my face.
Instead of the intended result, which was to allow me a taste of what I already knew would be a delectable sweet, the bundle of frosting and dough spreads across my face in a sticky mess.
Much to my dismay, it is utterly devoid of taste. I want to share this discovery, though my attempt to form words leads to me a second one: I have no ability to speak. I suppose this should not be a surprise - I possess no mouth, no tongue, nor any openings in my body to try to convey as such. I settle for wiping the offending food from my chin.
“You’re right!" the mare gasps in response. "It needs more sprinkles!”
She hops away and sets herself to her pointless endeavor. I follow her nevertheless. My journey takes me to an island covered with various baking supplies just as the mist is clearing up.
The mare adds just a few colourful bits onto the cake, her eyes lighting up like my master's when she receives the latest issues of the various fashion magazines, before turning her gaze toward a shaker of sprinkles. She seems to think about it for moment, lifting a hoof to rub her chin, before she nods to herself and lifts the shaker to douse the whole cake in brightly coloured sprinkles. She then declares it perfect with the largest grin I have yet seen on her face.
I find myself longing for the ability to speak, to tell her she doesn’t have to do that. If only I had been blessed with a mouth by Discord’s magic. Since I do not possess one, however, I try to remove the sprinkles instead.
“Hey!” she cried. “That’s Rarity’s cake. Silly Mr. Ponnequin, you could have just asked if you wanted your own.”
I am taken aback by the miscommunication. My hooves recoil instinctively and I turn to deny her assumption, but - just in the scant seconds between her remarks and my attempt to respond - she has already set about the task of baking another cake.
At first, I wish for her to cease the fruitless endeavor. Something about my reaction is amiss, but I can’t put my hoof to it. Whether I am unable to care about her time being wasted or am unable to drudge up the frustration of my actions being misinterpreted, I can’t tell.
Regardless of the case, I back away from her.
If there is one thing I have learned during this encounter, it is that I am utterly incapable of communicating with others. With no other recourse, I take my leave.
A dull ache weighs on me with every hoofstep I take away from that building. Communication will forever remain an untapped facet in my quest of self-discovery. With that knowledge in mind, there is no need to get in her way any longer. If she gets enjoyment out of this, who am I to decide her time is wasted?
Perhaps my mind will change when I have found that one thing which offers me the same sense of fulfillment I witnessed in that pink mare. What would a lively ponnequin such as myself do, I wonder? What can I do?
I try to put that thought behind me as I step back outside and into the night. It is no use falling back into the habit of self-reflection now. There must be some other way I can discover myself - to feel alive - than just the gratification from another’s company.
I decide to seek for that, driving myself ever closer to that seemingly out-of-reach horizon.
By the time something else catches my attention, the hour must have grown late. The moon is ascending in the night sky, and nearly everypony is now safe and sound within their abodes. Everypony save one, a bright spot of yellow easily visible against the blues and greys of the evening.
When I approach the mare, I begin to garner a sense of familiarity with her. I seem to recall her being one of Rarity’s friends, but her name escapes me. Her friends seldom entered my quarters to permit me that luxury.
She stands atop a small bridge overlooking a ravine, her head drooping to hang limply over the wooden rails. Her eyes hold the forlorn look of a faraway place. Her wings flutter every once in awhile to rub her cheeks, but she is otherwise still.
Her manner suggests she is in need of company, but hesitation seizes control of my body. If somepony else is unable to affect me, then it is doubtless that I can help her. Therefore, I keep my distance to observe her.
For a while, little changes with regards to our circumstance. We remain mute as a despondent aura settles on us both.
“What am I going to do?” she finally asks aloud. “Angel seemed really mad at me this afternoon, and he hasn’t been back all day.”
At least she cares for somepony. It may not seem like much, but that is more than I can say for myself. I am unsure whether I can bring myself to care for others. I recall numerous instances of observing Rarity and her sister and the obvious love and care they share for one another. What is that feeling even like? I can scarcely imagine it.
The notion of being alone somehow doesn’t disturb me in the slightest despite witnessing Rarity's numerous instances of crying into a tub of ice cream and wailing that she shall be forever alone. Why do she and so many others fear being alone?
Trapped betwixt my lack of understanding emotion and my helplessness at ending another’s lamentations, I am rooted in place as I continue to stare at her with fascination.
Eventually, she straightens and says, “Maybe he’s back home by now. I should go back and try to get some rest.” With that, she withdraws from the bridge and begins trotting off at a brisk pace.
Only now that she is gone do I regain control of myself. I walk onto the bridge and peer over the rail. My reflection stares back at me from the water.
I am still a ponnequin, of course.
Something about her quiet monologue sticks in my mind. Because it is late at night, she is going to try to put her worries behind her and sleep the night away. Perhaps sleep will put my own worries behind me so that I can more easily continue my quest come daybreak? I have not tried sleeping yet, but I know most ponies enjoy it. This seems to me the best way to pass the rest of the evening.
Having settled on a plan, I pull away from the water’s edge in search for a suitable place to rest my weary soul. I have no home to call my own, so the best I can hope to find is the natural canopy of a tree as a roof over my head. Perhaps I could return to my owner's home, but some part of me worries she may persuade Discord to take the gift of freedom he granted to me.
I walk until I stumble upon a grove of apple trees sequestered away from the rest of civilization. As I approach one tree in particular, my focus trails upward until my gaze lands upon its peak. The tree is so thick it seems almost as wide as it is tall.
I rest against the tree, feeling out for the bark. There is no sensation in my back, of course, but I am not put off by this. Allowing gravity to pull me to the ground so my haunches are fully nestled into the grass, I try to let the sounds of the night air ebb away all thought.
This works for a time. I lay there utterly still as the crickets chirp and an owl hoots in the background. Sleep never comes for me. I shift after a while and again when that does not help.
When sleep still refuses to grace me with peaceful, temporary oblivion, I become frustrated. Is sleep not desirable? Will this not help to put my troubled thoughts at ease?
I slam my back against the tree in an attempt to quell some of the frustration welling within me and accidentally dislodge an apple that plops on my head.
It bounces and then falls away, rolling until it comes to a stop between my rear hooves. I stare at the shiny, red object ... and then buck it from my sight for all I am worth.
The action fails to lift my spirits.
There I lay, motionless and unbreathing, yet never grasping sleep. As I stare at the stars above, the night’s events run through my mind on repeat. A gentle admission of defeat sweeps over me. Every attempt I have made to attain anything that comprises a living being has been just as unsuccessful as the last.
Perhaps I am trying to achieve the impossible.
I remain dormant the rest of the night, staring at the sky as I wait for something to suggest I do otherwise. After a few moments I plead for the stars to guide me, to show me my mistakes.
When daylight rends the veil of shadows, the sun pierces through my reverie. Not long after, the sound of hooves stamping against something draws my attention. Allowing my own to carry me closer to the sounds, I stumble my way into a clearing hidden within the forested area. A young mare, her attire composed only of a stetson hat, busies herself by bucking at the trees.
There is something simplistic in the way her legs unfurl, extending outward to their fullest extent just before they meet the unwavering resistance of bark. What follows is the sight of a batch of apples falling into baskets in an orderly fashion. All it takes is one well placed kick for each tree she visits to become bare.
Judging by the small smile that plays at her lips and the sweat already matting her coat and mane, I surmise that she might derive the same level of satisfaction from this that my master does her own work. It may even be her calling.
A thought enters into my mind: Perhaps I can find my calling in bucking these trees. It cannot be that difficult of a task for me to replicate.
I watch her closely and then mimic her actions.
As the apples plummet to the ground, I stare at them with fascination. I had no doubt that replicating her actions would be easy, though I am still surprised that I had more success than just pitifully clunking my hooves against the tree. I run up to strike two more trees and obtain similar results.
At long last. Success!
Still, something lingers at the back of my mind. As I run up to another tree and buck it with more fervor than before, a sickening realization dawns on me. I feel nothing.
I stop.
My eyes trail back to the orange mare. She wipes the sweat from her brow after one more buck. There is a clear indication of happiness defining her features. A happiness that I do not share.
Do I simply not find interest in the task, or is there some other driving force behind this lack of sensation? A truly despicable thought clouds my judgment: Perhaps my quest for personal enrichment is impossible.
Now that it has been brought to the forefront of my mind, it is an irrevocable thought. Crestfallen, I lower my head.
The grove of trees grows scarce in my trek back to the Boutique. It is the only destination that had ever truly given me anything at all. Perhaps it is a bleak existence, but it is an existence nonetheless. At the very least, I will not have to wallow in defeat after defeat only to see the last shred of my hope turn to ash over a pitiless flame.
As it turns out, the Boutique isn’t a long walk. Before long, I have made a circuitous route across Ponyville. The colourful architecture is shockingly inviting.
Just as I am about to cross the last few steps that will forever seal my fate as a mere ponnequin, the sight of a familiar pink mare catches my attention as she bounds away from the Boutique, presumably having just dropped off her cake. When she spots me, a gasp escapes her lips.
In no time at all, she is in front of me. “Mr. Ponnequin! You left so quickly, you forgot to take your cake with you. You’re lucky I keep extra around in case of an emergency.”
I have no idea what she is talking about at first, but she quickly produces a cake from her frizzy mane before I have any time to ponder her meaning for myself.
“I never leave Sugarcube Corner without one!” She hoofs over the confectionary, the words ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ inscribed on top in bright rainbow-coloured icing.
The only response to her gift is silence.
“Why the long frown? Is it because your self-discoveries up to this point have only seeded doubt upon the very nature of your quest and now you’re trapped in a pit of misery over the futility of your endeavors?” She asks.
When I still offer no response, she giggles. “Keep that up, and you’ll be a booky smarticorn like Twilight!” Crossing her forelegs, she continues, “You shouldn’t look at everything like it’s a puzzle with only one solution, silly!”
She rolls onto the ground until she stands on top of her head. “Try looking at things a little differently.”
The suggestion jostles my memories of the previous night’s events once more. My first encounter with this mare tells me that I am incapable of communicating with others.
If that is true, why is she standing here right now and telling me otherwise? Perhaps, in some small way, I did communicate with her after all, except in a different manner than I had expected.
The pegasus I spotted afterward could have used my help, this is true, but she could have just as easily needed the space I gave her. From our distance, we consoled each other.
Sleep that I so arduously sought out, yet never found, perhaps gives way to another facet of my existence that I have failed to consider up to this point. I can look up to the stars and ask the big questions in life and reflect upon my experiences while the real ponies are slumbering.
Tree bucking, and indeed any task to which I set myself in the future, may never truly bring me happiness. Still, there is a certain aspect of that path-finding that remains open to me: The act of doing it alone is worth the venture.
Realization dawns on me. The acts themselves aren’t my greatest concern. I can’t define myself by what others do or the way their lives play out. That isn’t 'living' at all.
That way of thinking will doom me to seek forever that which I can never truly attain. My experiences and my perceptions of them can’t be limited by somepony else’s meaning of life. They must be uniquely mine.
I find for the first time that my existence, my whole consciousness, is a blessing in disguise.
Walking up to the pink mare, I wrap my forehooves around her and pull her into a tight embrace. When I pull back, I imagine myself giving her the brightest smile I can muster. She beams in response, almost as if she is mimicking my thoughts.
I pull away and give her one last glance. Then I walk off toward my next adventure. It doesn’t matter that I can’t have what others have.
Because I am what they are not. I am myself. I am still Ponnequin.
Author's Note
After ... an exceedingly large number of edits, I think I have finally finished this piece.
I hope this has been enjoyable for you. This has been quite a challenge writing this philosophical venture, but I think it was well worth the effort put into it. At the very least, I think it has made me a better writer for it.
This has been the second of three of my story specials. Now onto my next one. 
