Streams of Consciousness

The stranger calmly made his way through the ashen remains of the town, occasionally stopping to glance at a nearby building or sign. Although unable to read what remained of the written words painted on the rotting wooden planks, a part of him instinctively picked up on the general message inscribed onto the signs. He had mostly walked by directional signs indicating what must have once been street names and the occasional shop, though the buildings themselves were in such a state that their previous purposes had been washed away with time.

Never lingering for too long, he made a mental map of the town with the best of his abilities. He didn’t really expect to become lost — or, at least, any more lost than he currently was —, but rather simply hoped to keep his mind busy, to prevent him from entering another meaningless linguistical debate with himself. He knew that should he allow his mind to wander once more, he would stop for hours just to think about the true meaning of signs, language and purpose.

Ever since waking up in these strange lands, he had noticed how much his mind had started to drift away and to wander off as soon as he stopped walking. This had been one of the reasons why he kept pushing forward, never allowing himself to remain in one spot for too long: he was afraid he’d spend so much time lost in his thoughts that he’d forget his bodily needs. So, he kept going as much as his body allowed him to, never resting for too long.

Eventually, the stranger reached what must have once been the town’s central square. A large area mostly devoid of ruins was surrounded by a circle of buildings, all in the same level of abandoned disrepair. The ground there was covered in the same strange dust that covered every single window around him. Observing the square more thoroughly before fully stepping into its vicinity, he noticed a few small bumps underneath the dust, near the center of the square breaking the otherwise completely flat ground.

Hesitantly, he stepped forward, carefully making his way toward the bumps. The only sounds accompanying his steps were that of his boots displacing the dust as well as the faintest melody of blowing winds. The area, otherwise completely silent, filled him with the sensation of dread. He knew that whatever laid underneath these bumps, these tiniest of hills, would shake him to his core… But would also bring an answer.

At least, he hoped so.

In total, he counted three of the ominous mounds. Getting increasingly closer, the stranger gauged that what was underneath must be fairly small, only being a couple of feet tall at most. And as he approached, as his eyes became able to better discern what was a formless shape just a moment ago, he was able to notice the shape of the things buried in the center of the square.

The forms all shared the same shape, one recognizable to the stranger. Still, though, he elected to kneel next to the closest mound to observe more carefully, still not daring to touch with his hands. He furrowed his brow, then scratched his chin. Despite there not being anyone to listen to him, he spoke up, asking a question both to himself and to the shapes in front of him.

“... Horses?” he asked, perplexed. “No,” he continued, “not quite. Too small… Ponies? I… I suppose it kind of makes sense for a small country town.”

Moving up to the next shape nearby, he carefully wiped at the layers of dust and ash to reveal a second cadaver, slightly larger than the previous one but still equine in nature. However, what caught his attention this time was not the stone-like bones of the animal in front of him, but what it was supposedly wearing before its untimely end. Laid atop its head was an old, worn-out leather hat. Multiple scratches and holes were scattered along its surface, leaving the hat just as decrepit as the rest of the world around it.

The stranger remained there, motionless, for a while. Slowly, the memories of his trip flooded back into his mind, the skeleton’s discovery shining a new light on the world around him. He did notice the strange architecture around the town: the smaller houses and doors, the large door handles, the half-erased horseshoe symbols on the signs. Standing back up, the stranger came to a realization.

This world, or this town at least, wasn’t inhabited by humans but by ponies.

He scratched his chin and looked around in stunned silence. Where exactly was he? In what world did he end up? Were these creatures just as sentient as he was? This thought seemed highly unlikely to the stranger, and yet he could not help but consider it. Instinctively grasping at his chest, at the symbol embossed on his cloak, he decided to step away. The remains in front of him would not bring him any further insight into this world.

Glancing at the ruins around him, he stepped away from the center of the town. He had lingered there long enough. His purpose in this world was still yet to be found and staring at old bone formations did not seem like the best use of his time. He pondered where to go next before closing his eyes. After a brief moment to think, he walked in one direction without much consideration other than it was the only path that felt right.

Now that he thought about it, most of his time in this world had been dictated by sensations rather than reason. Back home — wherever his home might have been — people did not act as carelessly as he did when facing strange occurrences. He remembered the stories from his world, the books, the films and the endless stream of entertainment his kind had access to. He remembered a friend, though they remained faceless in his memories. This friend loved to talk about theoretical apocalypses and upcoming end-of-the-world scenarios, how they would be prepared for anything that would happen.

He remembered the long nights spent listening to their meticulous plans, the details now lost to time. To be honest, he had rarely paid any attention to what seemed like utter nonsense at the time. He just enjoyed the conversation, the company of another soul to fill in the night’s silence.

At this point, this was all he could remember about this friend: that they talked about these impossible scenarios. Were they really friends, the stranger pondered. Perhaps they were family. Or perhaps, it was not someone to talk to at all: it could be a character from one of those countless stories he had access to. Maybe these echoes of past conversations were an amalgamation of the few memories still inhabiting his mind.

The only thing he knew for sure, though, was that he had not been acting rationally ever since arriving in this world. He had been there for days, now (or was it weeks?). Instead of securing a reliable source of food or finding shelter, he just walked. At first, to find traces of civilization, but his goals became blurred as he entered this ruined settlement.

When was the last time he ate?

Why was he not hungry?

Perhaps he just ate something. Perhaps he simply forgot. Or, maybe, just maybe, he no longer needed to eat. This thought barely troubled the stranger.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Once again, he caught himself letting his thoughts wander off, thinking about… What was he thinking about, again? The stranger blinked. It was becoming increasingly harder to focus.

He thought he was walking away from the corpses. When he came back to his senses, he finally noticed that he hadn’t moved at all ever since finding the hat near the equine skeleton. The worn-out hat he was now holding with a shaky hand. Tentatively, he put it on.

Inside his psyche, a dam broke. A torrent of thoughts flooded the expanse inside his skull, filling the void where his own remembrance was. Quick images flashed in front of his eyes. An orchard, trees graying with every season. Anger at a friend refusing to help. The mind-shattering hunger, the few scraps left given to the young.

The profound sadness at the thought of the inevitable. The discovery of a body unmoving in his bed, his formerly massive frame now rendered thin and weak. It was all to protect the young, he had said the night prior when skipping dinner.

Then, an exodus of sorts. She took her sister and left. A friend came back, with promises of a solution… But the friend lied. A lie so obvious, and yet just one pony saw through it. Anger, then a confrontation.

Then, the memories ended. Whatever end the hat-wearing corpse had met, it was too quick for her to notice.

The stranger sighed. At least he had received confirmation concerning this world’s inhabitants. Ponies, he uttered aloud. With a mind now cleared of the fog that had inhabited it for the past minutes, he stood up. The vast emptiness inside his head had been partially filled by the memories somehow stored inside the hat.

His purpose seemed obvious, then.

He looked up. His eyes grew wide. In the skies above, dark, heavy clouds began to descend — or, rather, materialize into thin air. Brief flashes of chaotic light peered through the clouds’ heavy mass, as if a powerful storm was stuck inside, unable to fully pierce its surroundings to strike the lands beneath.

And, just inside these ominous clouds that now covered the skies above, the stranger noticed something even more peculiar. Shapes, moving inside the clouds.

For the first time ever since stepping foot in this world, a wave of pure fear washed over him. Just above him, an overwhelming danger. A threat worse than death. Quickly, he stood up and ran as far as he could, away from the town’s center.

He was not alone in this world. And while he had noticed the other entities living in it, he prayed that they had not noticed him yet.