There's an acrid smell in the air this morning. Like something is burning. I remember this same smell. One afternoon. Three months ago.
But...
It feels just like yesterday.
And that's how I know this week will be awful.
Even though it's nothing special.
I get up out of bed and go to work.
I hold a newspaper in my hooves, but I'm not reading it. I just want it open. Its words spread before me. Stemming from authors unseen.
Holding books and holding magazines...
...it makes me feel as though I'm in the presence of lots and lots of ponies. I'm immersed in their ideas.
Or...
At least... I acknowledge their ideas. We're all swimming in the same pond. We all belong to the same school.
But that's not true. It's just an illusion. A paper moon.
I've thrown my ideas onto paper before. I wonder... how many ponies cradle my words, hold them close by, but without actually reading them. Just how many of them are lost in this same sea as I am. And does the illusion of friendship season the taste of drowning in their muzzles.
I've swam this sea for a long time. I was only ever by myself.
I close the newspaper. I fold it tight and trot to shore. I'm in a park outside Ponyville. Green grass. Blue skies. Ponies are wandering and talking but not really living. Like comets forever missing each other.
It has always been this way. I pretended otherwise for so long.
My break is over.
I must go back to work.
There's a pile of letters in my drawer back home.
Bound in twine.
Most of them are open and read.
There are three envelopes that are unopened. I haven't bound those yet.
Yesterday... or perhaps it was last week... two months ago...?
In a burst of strength, I had pulled the letters from where they lay hidden. I carried them to the dumpster out back. I almost even touched the lid.
But I did not discard them.
The sun was in my eyes and I was starting to sweat. It stung after a minute or two.
Before long, I trotted back into the house. I put the letters back in the drawer, sliding it shut. Obscuring the envelopes in darkness—both opened and unopened.
Rubbish. Flame. Oceans. What does it matter? I know what is or isn't forgotten.
There will come a day when I throw them all away. There will come a day.
My work shift is over. I hurry to pack up and leave.
I don't know why.
There's nopony I wish to talk to here. But there's nopony I wish to talk to anywhere. Not on the way home. Not in my neighborhood. None in my address book whom I would entertain the thought of writing.
But I am in a hurry to leave. Even if my time spent in leisure is meaningless it is still my time to spend.
There was a day and age when I looked forward to things. It is difficult to make out now. The smoke is too dense to peer through.
But I can smell it. Just like I did this morning. Just like I did three months ago. Or perhaps it was three years ago. Or ten.
Slash-and-burn farming. Every earth pony is taught about it from a young age. I was taught about it. It's tradition. It's saved civilization from famine throughout the centuries. Or so we are all told.
But it is not enough on its own. The technique is nothing without anticipated rain. And timing is important.
I've lost track of time, and I cannot remember when my life benefited from a thorough rinse. But I've certainly acted as if there'd be a bloom after each razing. All I know now... all I feel is regret. It is the only resource I can rely on. And for all that I've burned, it continues to be all that remains.
The smell is pungent.
I look around at everypony; I don't know why. I already know they can't smell it like I can. They rely on something that is alien to me. Strange and foreign—like another language. I never learned it because I never committed. Or—if I did—I've long forgotten it. And even if I learned a special magic spell and went back in time, I just know I would forget everything all over again. That's why I can't ask for help. I deserve this.
I deserve this.
But somehow...
...that is not enough to live it down. Some things just can't be forgotten.
I'm trotting along a path.
I don't know where.
I can't particularly remember the last time I ventured on this side of Ponyville.
All of the districts...
All of the places of this town...
...they each used to have a different pony's face attached to them. Which is why they too have faded from memory. From focus. From habit.
All I know is the path to work to home to the supermarket and then to bed. Most of me is stretched along this solitary route. It's loose. Like a rubber band that's lost most of its tension. Part of the strand has been frayed long ago, its fibrous bits lying in shadow. Hidden. Some of it even unopened.
The road is made of dirt. In some parts—gravel. It hugs the edge of the Everfree Forest. This place used to be too wild to approach... even on its fringes. But so much has been tamed over the years.
So much of this land has been harmonized—by the Princess and her friends and allies. There was a time when special things happened. Epic, incredible, mesmerizing things. I was a part of that once. I was a part of so much. The only thing that hurts more than memories fading is knowing that I could have been part of so much more of it. If I wanted to.
And do want to. But I know I'll never pursue it. The idea of having friends is far more alluring than the effort needed to maintain the reality of it. That's why I gave up. Gave up on pretending, for every attempt made was only ever curtailed. By me. I have myself to blame. And part of living—and dying—is learning to be okay with that. Because what other choice do I have. I know me. I know the smell.
I carry on. Past leaves. Bushes. Branches. Mundane things.
Even they used to be special. Like all things in my path. Things that I read. Things that I heard. Things that I thought about.
I once cataloged everything with a second mind. A personality that I borrowed. In many ways, it was one that I hijacked. The facsimile of a soul at best. But I believed in it. And it spurred me on. And in conversing with it, I staved off the Void with the illusion that I was never alone. Even though I was always alone. And now... that so many years have gone by after the too-few years that I danced that dance and I've come to grips with it being over...
...I wonder why I carried on so long thinking I was dancing in pairs.
It is so empty here now. It is so incredibly empty everywhere. But even all that darkness isn't a fit punishment for my selfishness. If only I had done things differently. If only I had dropped the mask and left the dance to poetry and all the silly things I once believed in. The illusion meant more than what it covered, and that is the gravest sin.
But...
...thrown out, burnt, or drowned. It doesn't matter. It's still not forgotten, so I know the dance has never ended. Reconciliation recedes like an eternal tide.
And I keep on trotting this path.
There are ponies here. I did not expect them. Nor their laughter. The laughter of foals at play. Song—in the distance, but not too far away. A surprise serenade.
I emerge upon the clearing, brushing past some vines and brambles and thorns. The hidden garden opens like a treasure chest. There are songbirds and colors. Flowers too.
I've discovered a swimming hole. But it's more than that. Here—at the end of this winding path—the trail meets with a looming cliff jutting from the inner heart of the Everfree Forest. There's a stream—or a river or a brook—and it culminates here. Excitedly.
A waterfall.
It is tall. Majestic. And yet—still cozily small and familiar, even though I've never seen it. How could I have never seen it? Or heard it? Its roar is like a gently loving audience, hooves applauding a miniature symphony. Pleading for an encore and enraptured to be immediately granted this whimsical wish.
The cerulean waters cascade into a deep, round pool. Carved by time and nature. Deep, but with edges softened by moss and erosion.
This is where the foals have gathered. There and above. A secondary cliff—much lower and far more accessible—stretches beneath a dangling throng of vines. Colts and fillies take turns grabbing these in tight fetlocks and kicking off the earth before swinging through the moist air, wailing and whooping into the afternoon gleam. Then when their shouting swing reaches its apex, they drop like giggling anvils into the drink below. The resulting splashes are extraordinary, like crystalline fireworks, and rainbows are birthed into the ether. One soul at a time. Falling. Carefree. Immortal.
Then they swim out, climb out, and ascend. Just to repeat.
There is precious little time to do this. I've discovered this niche at the precise moment of pure magic—when the setting sun pierces through the available cleft in Everfree rock, affording a moment—perhaps a half hour at best—for this rainbow nursery to transpire, sown by innocents in free-fall. It's something they must have known—they must have discovered. But now they're not the only ones.
Now they're not the only ones. For the briefest of moments, I feel like I'm part of something beyond myself. Simply by existing.
That's not the reason my heart is lifting.
Nor is it because of the unbridled looks of joy on their soaking wet muzzles.
It's not because I shall forever know that this wonderfully mirthful place is just a stone's throw away from where I live.
And it's not due to the fact that a few of the children have waved and smiled at me, as if inviting this lost creature to join them in their juvenile plunge.
No...
...the reason for why my heart is lifting is the very same reason for why it's now sinking.
Because like all special places I've discovered throughout the years, it's not.
Because like all of those times—and now—I can already tell that the dance has not ended. Even in the dark—unbound and unopened—I still have motions to waste the inevitable with. As old as I am, and as tiny a shriveled thing that I've allowed myself to become, the fact remains that I still remember.
“And why is it that whenever I find beautiful things,” the words limp out. “The first thought that always comes to mind is sharing them with you?”
The smoke settles. Even here. The foals don't know it. They rise up to fall back down to rise up yet again. I may as well not be here. We're like comets, after all. Forever missing each other.
I turn tail.
And I trot home.
The day is late.
But the night never ends.
I open the drawer. I gaze in. But the shadows are the same inside and out.
There's a pile of letters there. I know it.
They're bound in twine.
Most of them are open and read.
Five of them... or is it seven now? They remain unopened. I haven't bound those yet. I doubt I ever will.
I think of the dumpster out back. I think of showing up at work in the morning. Forest fires and floods. All these wordless depths into the hole I've sank and still I'll never swim to the surface. I know what drags me down. I know.
And yet...
I close the drawer again. I no longer see the letters, and yet I do. They form a fabric under my eyes as I lay down in bed. I curl up beneath them and try not to think. Try not to dance.
There will come a day when I throw them all away.
There will come a day...
Author's Note
