Chapter 1: The call of beauty
The room was a grotesque sea of papers and ink; swallowing the floor in their seemingly endless and infectious mass. Broken and discarded quills drifted along their uneven surface. Words of disgust, laid written along its water. While shattered ink bottles sunk beneath their filthy, papyrus textured, waves. However this was not a sea of great unfinished works. Instead it was a sea of failures. Disgusting failures that haunted their creator. For they were lacking the beauty he sought to encapsulate. Failing to achieve his only goal.
Their endless expanse of disgust continued uninterrupted throughout the room. That was with one expedition. The middle, in which rose a pair of mighty wooden mountains. They reached for the roof above, far out of the reach of the grime below. Both neatly made and masterfully crafted of simple pine wood. With their only blemish being those instilled upon them by their current owner.
The taller of the two mountains was a desk, which housed with it the waterfall of papers and inks that breathed death into the sickly ocean below. As well as the candle that illuminated the failure; making them visible for all to see. The shorter compatriot was a chair in which a frustrated creature sat, a changeling. He idly looked over the stack of papers atop the first mountain, before furiously throwing another fresh wave of paper to the ocean below like God casting man out of The Garden of Eden. Hoping they might scatter far enough apart that they're words never meet again and thus prevent their ugly head from ever surfacing. A vain attempt. For out of the corner of his eyes he could still see the botched works staring up at him; begging to be corrected and finished, yet he had neither the resolve nor the knowledge to do so. And so they remained forever banished from his presence. Doomed to rot away into nothingness.
A frustrated and heart broken groan escaped his pine tinted muzzle. His right hoof came down once more with a thunderous bang, sending tsunamis of rejected and tarnished paper scurrying across the room, while the light that illuminated the world briefly flickered from the sudden gust; nearly casting the world into a deep darkness. The green giant seeing this froze in worry, waiting for the candle to regain its strength before picking back up the tool of his craft to try again. The new quill, now encapsulated by the magic, just barely hovered over the fresh batch of paper yet made no further movement as if unsure what to say.
But that wasn't quite right, for the changeling knew what to say, just not how to say it. As his mind was a maelstrom of competing thoughts, each toiling over the other for a chance to be conveyed to paper. Though their struggles were frantic, there was almost an order to the chaos. As one died away to the back it gave birth to another that would overtake the one that now held center stage.
Though ultimately their attempts were counterintuitive, as when one made it to paper it would undermine the last; thus causing the sting of thought to be undermined. As it was no longer a cohesive melody, rather a disgruntled series of odd and harsh noises. As a result they, like all the thoughts, words and feelings, that came before were cast aside into the ocean of bile below. In the simplest terms this series of events was a cycle. A cycle that had been carried out for longer than the changeling cared to count. A cycle that had bled the once eager bug dry of the joy he once held for this endeavor. Now each new word was no longer a task he wished to attempt. But was instead a slog he dreaded, but had to do. For like all creatures, he was a slave. His master however was the world itself.
A world that at every instance reached out for him, begging to be explored. Begging to be explained. Begging to be more than just something others glanced at. It demanded that it be seen. It be known. It be loved such as he loved it. In truth though the “world” is only what he called it. The world was in reality so much more than just that. It was something that lacked any true definition. But rather, it was a gut feeling of knowing it when you saw it.
In his mind it was The simple smell of grass as it was dewed. The feeling of a sea breeze over taking oneself. The distant sound of thunder offering to bring with them rain. The simple beauty of another day gracing the land with its majestic light. The respite a friend could give in a sea of anguish. The insurmountable struggle one has to overcome during the lowest points of life. The unknowable pain from a heart freshly broken. It was a story every creature and everything had. An untapped trove of knowledge, feelings and experiences. Each unique and distinct from the last. While there were over laps and parallels amongst these things, none were quite the same.
Each a was and is a new experience, so alien to his own, and so very familiar at the same time. Each one brought smiles and tears, hope and grief, friends and enemies, memories both good and bad. Each was an experience he didn't wish to just emulate or copy. No he wished to create one that may tell its own story. So that others might see it too.
See the vivid hues of indescribable colors. Hear the wondrous and harmonic melody of life. Experience the highs and lows of existence. Be enthralled with the same thing that had captured his mind for so long.
Even now as he sat alone in the poorly lit room he could see it. The deep umber browns of his wooden room. Each plank had its own unique quirks and textures that all told a story. The simple sound as a quill married paper and ink slathered over its virgin surface, that was begging to bring in something new to the world. Something beautiful. He could feel it in his very being; yearning to be released. And yet, he could not. With all his power and all the time he had spent contemplating these things, he simply could not do it. For he did not know how to breath such things into the world. No he was only capable of breathing pale imitations and crude replicas, that lacked that inert beauty.
For, in his mind, he was not a pony. He did not receive such magical gifts such as they. Gifts he so badly wished he had so that he might share it with the world. No, instead he was born with no such luck. He was a changeling through and through. Destined to only leech off others and never truly create. Forever a slave to the desires impressed upon him by the world, desires he could never fulfill. For unlike ponies he did not have a heart that could be broken. He did not have lungs so that his breath may be taken away. Nor did he have muscles or bones that could know aching. Instead he could only observe such things, for he had chiton in place of bones. An open circulatory system in place of lungs and a heart. He could not even truly see the world in which ponies saw it. Instead he was stuck viewing it through the range of ultra violets only wishing he could if even for a moment gain a ponies eyes.
Yet even in these differences, even in these setbacks. He still knew that the world was beautiful. Even if he could never truly come to appreciate it as ponies could. Though even after years of study and observation and wishing the world remained as indescribable as it was beautiful. Even when he so very much wished it not to be. But at last, the years took their toll and he was reduced to toil and struggle, as he tried to convey the things he so very much wished to express. All the world’s beauty seemingly stuck locked inside his mind and begging to be shared. It was like a prisoner, and he its warden. Though he wished to free it, to let it out, he had lost the key, or maybe he never had it. Try as he might no key he ever tried worked. So it remained confined to the deepest parts of his conscious, like a forbidden knowledge that should never see light. Doomed to die away with him.
It pained him to watch it sit there. Pained him that the cell only ever grew in size. Pained him to know it was due to his inability. His inability to let them out. The thoughts haunted him all his days like a specter. Following him wherever he went. Attacking him whenever he ignored the world’s plea to be expressed. There were days it didn’t even allow him to sleep or eat. And over the years it has slowly chipped away at him until the world no longer left him happy, and instead it made him cry. Cry that he had failed. Cried that he could not free it. Cry that he would forever be stuck with it and its nagging. Crying that something he loved so much, only brought him pain.
Chapter 2: To answer the call
As his magic faltered, he let the quill rest back on the flat wooden surface. Tucking to the side of his most recent paper with all the gentleness of a father to his children. He felt his body tire and protest. His body attempting to cry out over the whaling in his head, so that he might rest instead of continuing his fruitless endeavor. Though he heard his body’s protest, he did not answer it. Instead he let his mind wander as his eyes drifted out to his window, so that he might see the moon lit night. His horn began to light once more with what energy he could muster and pulled aside his curtains; revealing the full canvas of the night.
It was a divine sight of heavenly bodies planted across the navel blue canvas that was space. Shooting stars, were brush strokes across the blue void. Galaxies carefully painted in place so that none may overpower the other. Then its crowning jewel, its magnum opus. The moon. It sat firmly in the center; on full display so that all may witness its majesty. It rested with the gentleness he imagined pony mothers show to their foals. Watching over them as they played. Its soft glow, a warm and protective light that guided every creature so that they may not falter. Yet most of his fellow creatures opted for sleep instead of embracing the motherly body.
He felt a brief bit of pain that so many would miss this masterpiece. A sight that could never be replicated again. Instead they opted to retire to the slumbering world. Now there was beauty in dreams, or so he had been told, for he did not dream, but to him the world itself had no equal in raw beauty. Only pale imitations, such as his own. The realization caused an ironic chuckle to roll out his mouth as he realized the similarities he had with the sleeping creatures. The same ones he had just down played. Both of them only mimicked the beauty of the world but never fully capturing it. Now there were definitely wonderful recreations others had made for sure, some he loved almost as much as the world itself. But they were never quite the same.
As the last of his thoughts died off to little more than distant echoes he let his eyes drift to the streets of Canterlot itself. Following a beam of light from the moon and watching the way in which it glistened off a nearby roof. The way the light, if even for a brief moment, bent and changed. It was like falling in love again. Reaffirming the beauty he saw in the world, making it a joy once more even if it did take a toll on him. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant he got to experience this again.
This in turn caused a haggard smile to crack his muzzle. Even now, when brought to the point of tears of his own inability, the world's beauty calmed him. Telling him a story that only he could hear. Showing him colors that only he could see. Creating a moment no creature else would ever truly replicate. Had he a literal heart he was sure it would have been filled with the warmth of a thousand suns by the comforting gesture of the world, and yet. It too left him feeling miserable in its own twisted way. It was a double edged sword in truth. One that reminded him of all the reasons he loved and hated the beauty of the world. Something like this must be shared with the world, and yet he could not. So he idly sat; slumped against his chair in defeat. Hooves dragging through the sea of paper below.
As his body began to sink back down in his chair once more a dreary sigh forced its way out his throat. For he was once more reaffirmed in his task, yet still left unsure how to answer it.
Several moments would then pass before he could muster the energy to will his aching body to comply with his commands once again. Then even longer still till he could muster up the constitution to write once more. As he began scribbling away at his paper in a rhythmic scratching pattern seconds began to turn to minutes and minutes turned into hours and then finally the golden hues of dawn began to greet the horizon. Changing the olive green tinted with the lightest dab of midnight blue fields to ones of chartreuse.
Though it had been hours, the arrival of dawn had felt like mere seconds to the tired bug, causing a surprised yawn to creep out his mouth. He wished to continue, but his body had finally begun to win over the calls of the world. Forcing him to become immobile as anchors attached itself to his eyelids. A wave of protest built up in his mind, wishing to continue his attempts but his body would not let him. Having been thoroughly defeated, he let his body slump back down, as his eyes gazed upon what remained of the now fading night sky. So that he might too fade away for a bit like the stars; only to return and shine again.
That is when he noticed the most peculiar thing. Ursa minor was out of place amongst the sky. Not by much, but enough for him to have noticed. The oddity caused a series of thoughts to pour in as his mind attempted to drift off. Most notably a question as to why, it was off. A concept that to him should be horrifying, the world he had come to love was wrong. Yet, his mind did not recoil in disgust
While he wished to chalk it up to simply being too tired to reason properly another thought crept into his mind. A thought deep in the back of his mind whispered out something just as peculiar as the disarray of stars.
It was still beautiful. Wrong, but beautiful in its own way. This in turn had caused a domino effect in his mind. One thought collapsed and led to another which too would collapse until he was left with only one conclusion.
Even in failure life was still beautiful. For it was rather by merely existing that it gained its beauty. It was in this moment, a moment of pure lucidity, that he had finally found the key in his mind to open the cell door. Though it was not the key he had expected, all the same this key allowed those thoughts to leave his mind now and grace the world. Suddenly he found new meaning in his writings he had once so angrily disregarded. They were no longer failures at imitating the beauty of the world.
Light began to now trickle in through the now open window. Gently illuminating the writings of the words he was once unable to read in the dark. The light gently gleamed off the creamy white papers. As bits of light sparkled off the now dried ink, giving the field of pacers a look almost analogous to a diamonds. Even if it was the wrong color.
For they were now their own pieces of it, not failed copies. Their own little slices of the world, not simple recreations. Each their own unique story, not just a mere echo of another, not just words trying to convey thoughts. But the papers in of themselves were the thought. They were the beauty he saw in the world. For in their attempts whether they be good or bad well received or chided, they were the story of trials, of brilliance, and of frustration in of themselves. That in turn was what gave them their beauty he now saw clearly. This new moment of clarity brought to him was one that he could only describe as analogous to a blind creature seeing for the first time. The feeling they must experience when they first gaze upon a brave new world of colors. This was a thought he could sleep with. With that, he drifted off to his first restful sleep in his life.
