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So I’m sitting here, and I’m thinking about the past. What has happened, what is happening, and what will come to pass soon. My life has been an unending rollercoaster, with friends along for the ride, the ride of my life.
Some ponies mean more to you than others. And one pony always means more to you than anything.
I had a pony like this. Had. She’s not here anymore. She went a long time ago. If life is a ride, then there has to be a stop at some point for everyone to get off.
Some get off the ride sooner than others.
But that’s fine. It’s just a fact of life. Every living thing must get off the ride at some point or another, and you can only hope that the passengers you meet are fun.
But if it was a ride, then there had to be some exciting parts. And there a lot of them.
Oh so many...
But for every exciting moment there must be some sort of repercussion. Think of it as a rollercoaster. You go down a stretch, and for a few scarce moments you’re at the top of the world, soaring through the air without a care for anything but the adrenalin pumping through your veins.
It almost feels like flying…
That was what my life used to be. All. The. Time. I would soar, and streak through the sky. Nopony in the whole of Equestria would have a hope of stopping me. I had the most exciting times out of anyone alive. I had the biggest drop, the biggest thrill.
But then comes the climb back to the top of the ride. A good example of this is a hangover. You have a fun night out in the town, Sugarcube Corner. Wherever, it doesn’t really matter that much. But say that you did happen to go somewhere, and then say that you got really, really drunk. You may be having a lot of fun, consequences be damned, but at some point you’re going to have to deal with the hangover, and depending on how much you drank the night before... Well, you know the rest.
That’s the climb. Or at least, a good example of one.
My climb was slightly different. It was more of an octave change, as if the ride had suddenly dropped entirely, the falls becoming less and less, the track getting closer to the ground. It’s a bit hard to explain, but you’ll just have to bear with me on this one.
I lost the ability to soar that day, that feeling of shooting through the clouds on my ride. before that I had a special passenger, and she stayed with me until the end. Or rather, her end.
We always assume that the ponies that are riding with us will always be there. That when the time finally comes to depart they’ll hold your hoof and whisper sweet nothings into your ear until you slowly edge across the seat, and closer towards the exit of the ride, leaving them alone on the ride.
I was in for a shock when my ride didn’t happen that way.
My one was a bit more sudden. It was almost as if the safety bar had just been ripped clear off the cart we were in, exposing us to the wind. But the only problem that only her portion of the bar had been taken by the wind.
And so the two of us streaked along, and I screamed. But not out of enjoyment, or exhilaration.
This was a scream of fear.
Through the course of a ponies ride, they never scream. Maybe I should rephrase that, it’s a little bit off…
A pony will never truly scream. I mean, sure they’ll throw their hooves up into the air and feel the wind rushing through their coats, and they’ll yell.
But that’s different. Much different.
No, what I experienced was a true scream. It was the only thing that could sum up my feelings that day. The day that she was taken from me. It was the day that a part of me died. It was the day that my world darkened, just that little bit.
It was the day that Laughter went out of my life.
It was the day that I was left alone, all alone, so terrifyingly alone, on my ride, with the seat still barely warm next to me, reminding me of her presence.
I had always prided myself on my colours. They were the things that made me… me. Heck, I was even named after them. From the tip of my coat, to the fringes of my unkempt mane I positively screamed colour and excitement. It was something that would never, no, could never change about me. The colours on the outside were only ever matched the colours on the inside.
But after she left me I think that statement lost its integrity. I felt as if my insides had darkened and dimmed. There was nothing to show on the outside, and if I acted correctly then I could probably have fooled anypony. But I had dimmed, and even if no one else knew, I did. It was one of those things that, even though you have no way to prove it, you know that it had happened.
A bit like falling in love…
And did I know a lot about that or what. I have met many, many ponies throughout my lifetime, and I like to think that I left a lasting impression on every single one.
Some of them even managed to make a slight impression on me, and a while after she left me, I started opening up my heart. Not much mind you, just a little. It was only the barest of glimpses, but it was the most that I had seen in a long time. And I let some of those ponies into my life.
But while their impression may have indented onto me slightly, they never had much of an impact on my life as such.
That spot was only reserved for one, and she was torn from me brutally, and without warning. Even now, as my ride is starting to slow, I look beside me and see the spot where she used to sit. The indent of her form is there. The torn bar is there, only a portion mended.
Even the warmth that should have vanished long ago is still there. It gives me a good feeling, knowing that at least there's something left of her. It’s one of the few things that can make me happy.
The expression was always the worst. As the bar was torn away that is.
I can picture it perfectly, exact down to the very last detail. The wind flying through her mane as she laughed. The occasional odd movement that she would make, throwing her hooves up occasionally as we went down the dips. This was of course before my life changed octave. While we had the most fun.
The time when I soared.
The time when she was with me.
And then the flames had appeared from nowhere. They streaked across the front of the cart we were in, a ballet of different hues, every variant of red that you could ever think of.
And then there was an explosion, a rumble, almost imperceptible.
Almost.
The bar was flung off almost immediately after, and there was nothing I could do but watch. Watch as the most valuable pony in my life was swept away from me, right in front of my eyes, by the flames. And I had been helpless.
Oh how I had struggled, and fought, and punched, and kicked and screamed and bitten and yelled and shouted and attacked and wept and regretted and denied and thought and wept and struggled and wept and wept and wept…
But I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t accept that she was gone.
Rational thought is a funny thing. We can talk to ourselves, and reason all we like, but beneath it all we are irrational creatures, born to be irrational. Remember the dark? That place that no one wants to approach? We spend most of our childhood fearing it, and trying to get away, to reach the light.
But then we grow out of it. We supposedly start to become a grown up and realise that what we had once feared was just silly, a problem for infants and foals, nothing more.
And we almost manage to convince ourselves of that fact. We almost manage to convince ourselves of the lie.
That we do not fear the dark.
But that’s not true. We always fear the dark. It will always be hard-wired into our brains and though processes that the darkness is a precursor to danger, and loss.
And yet we struggle to convince ourselves otherwise. What for? To prove to others with the same affliction that we are somehow better? More intelligent? Intelligence has nothing to do with it.
The darkness is just something that, no matter who or what you are, will scare you. It’s a fear of the unknown. A fear that there is something bigger, stronger, more dangerous than you out there somewhere, and that there is nothing that you can do to stop it.
Now imagine this. You are in a dark room, and someone that you hold dear is in there with you. It is pitch black, and you know that there is something else in the room with you, but you don’t know what.
And then a gasp, a strangled cry, and your friend is gone. Would that feel good?
Now imagine how I felt after she went.
Death is another reflex fear, another futile danger sense that we have inbuilt. We know that it is there somewhere, and that it could be after you, but we never realise just how quickly it can approach, or how silently, until it’s there with you, standing next to you, breathing over your shoulder.
I can never remember when I became aware of mortality. It must be a frightening thought for a young foal to go through. At some point in our existence we suddenly become aware of just how fleeting our lives are, just how short they are. We become aware that we are nothing but candles in the wind, fighting bravely against the inevitable.
And it would be terrifying.
And then we block it out of our minds. We find the deepest, darkest recesses, where nothing else lives, and shove that fear of our own demise away. We lock it up and think that by avoiding it we might never have to deal with it.
I lived my life in that kind of way. To me, injury was just another part of the job. If I crashed while attempting a trick I would just recover in a couple of days anyway. Flying was easy, and my wings were the best.
On the outside.
Flying is another curious thing that we take for granted. Twilight would have told me about how the magic in a pegasus helps them to fly, lecturing me for hours, Applejack would have said something about how it was interesting, but it wouldn’t help her get her chores done.
I don’t think that they ever really understood what made me fly. There was only one pony that knew what gave me that ability, and she left me.
I flew because I was meant to fly. I flew because deep down I was happy, and I knew that I was loved, and that I had the support of those around me.
But most of all, I flew for her, for her affection, for her approval. And when she left…
I’ve told all that ask me about why I don’t race anymore that I lost the ability to soar when she left me. They don’t believe me. I look fine, even in my old age. My wings are strong, my physique lean and thin from years of exercise.
And yet I still can’t fly. Not like I used to.
She was the one that gave me the inspiration, and without her… it was as if I just couldn’t fly anymore. I couldn’t bring myself to do what I had done so many times before. Yes, I still flew, but I didn’t fly.
The joy was gone, and I was broken inside. The seat is still warm, and the impression is still there. The bar is still damaged.
And I don’t think that it’ll ever go away.
Ever.
The rest of the cart has filled up. More and more ponies have joined the ride, and all of them are smiling. Some have gotten off, and they hurt more than I can describe.
But their children, and their children’s children… they all live on. I can hear them running; I can hear their shouts, their tears, and their happiness…
I can hear their laughter…
I never had any children. There never seemed to be that need. And honestly, I think that I’ve cared for more fillies and colts anyway. I’m the old and ‘wise’ elder, the Granny Smith of the new generation.
They make me happy, just being around them. I can only hope that she’s looking down on me and smiling.
So the carriage is filling up, screaming foals arriving in their scores as we crest each small bump in the ride.
And yet none take the front seat. That place is reserved for one pony. And only that one pony could ever hope to sit there with me. Even as I watch the ponies grow older, and get married, and have foals of their own.
None of them can replace her.
I have lived a very full life, and I don’t think that anyone can say otherwise. I have seen things, I have travelled places, and I’ve seen ponies. Lots and lots of ponies. More than I can count.
So I’m sitting here, and I’m thinking about the past. What has happened, what is happening, and what will come to pass soon. My life has been an unending rollercoaster, with friends along for the ride, the ride of my life.
Some ponies mean more to you than others. And one pony always means more to you than anything.
I had a pony like this. Had. She’s not here anymore. She went a long time ago. If life is a ride, then there has to be a stop at some point for everyone to get off.
Some get off the ride sooner than others.
But that’s fine. It’s just a fact of life. Every living thing must get off the ride at some point or another, and you can only hope that the passengers you meet are fun.
But if it was a ride, then there had to be some exciting parts. And there were a lot of them.
Oh so many...
But for every exciting part there must be some sort of repercussion, and after all that I’ve seen I think that the ride is starting to flatten out. The bumps and dips are becoming less curved, less exciting.
It’s a gradual thing, but it’s there. I know it.
I can feel, deep in my old achy bones, the real truth. The one that all ponies try to hide from their whole life.
But that’s fine. It’s just a fact of life. Every living thing must get off the ride at some point or another, and you can only hope that the passengers you meet are fun…
The passengers are what make the ride worthwhile after all, and I can only hope that I was a good passenger to the hundreds of ponies that I’ve helped.
But I can feel the cart slowing, ever so gradually, but slowing nonetheless. The track is becoming almost flat now, and I can almost make out something in the distance. A building?
And then the rollercoaster starts to stop, and the cart slides into the small structure.
And then it halts entirely, all momentum gone.
A deathly silence encompasses the cart. I feel the restraint release from over my shoulders with a slight hiss, and I know that I’ve finally reached my stop. I step up from the cart and gingerly walk off, age and weariness falling away from me as I retreat from the ride, sloughing from my old bones like hot wax.
There’s a doorway in front of me, sunshine streaming through it, giving promises of adventure to be had. I think that I can see her behind it as well, her cotton candy mane bouncing wildly as she hops up and down rapidly. She looks as young as when I had last seen her.
I look behind me, at all the ponies still sitting in my cart. They’re looking at me, some curious, some afraid, some understanding.
I only smile. It’s the only thing that I need to do, and I think that they understood.
And then I walk through the doorway, towards the one pony that meant more to me than any other in the world. And I didn’t feel sad. What reason was there to? This was only a doorway. Nothing more, nothing less. I was leaving one ride, that was for sure, but there was a whole park out there waiting for us, together.
And, as I walk into the sunlight to feel her embrace, I almost feel like flying…
