Holding their heads heavy
Have you ever just sat on a bench and watched people, or in this case, ponies walk by? Have you ever really looked at them? At their clothing, faces, eyes, hair, movement, shoes?
He was thinking that now.
Who is he? Oh, nopony in particular, just some random passerby sitting and staring at the busy hustle-bustle of Canterlot.
They sigh.
The ponies of Canterlot. They sigh. Often.
He sat there, thinking about how they sigh, and why they sigh. Some he saw trotting with lights in their eyes. One in particular was a large white unicorn with a full head of luscious blue mane. A lean white and baby pink unicorn accompanied him. They nuzzled and he sighed. Most likely in contentment. He was a very content stallion. And why wouldn't he be? But that pony sitting on that bench, he knew. He was wise, and knew the ways of the world. Nopony's truly happy.
They worry.
They worry about big things, small things, strange things, funny things. They also worry about each other. They worry about their mothers and their fathers. Their aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. That pony sitting on that bench knew, and he saw the small glint that appeared, no more than a fraction of a second mind you, in the stallion's eyes. He worried, he worried about his finances, his wife, his life in Canterlot. He worried about what he should do with his life, where to take it now, now, that it was at the zenith. The very top, cream of the crop. Why did he worry though? Why did he worry about such trivial things such as that? Look at him! He had a loving wife who would never desert him, friends and good family in a corrupt town. He should not worry, he should be happy with what he has.
But that pony sitting on that bench knew better. He knew that all ponies worry. All ponies, zebras, griffins, and princesses. Even the ones who have no reason to worry. Like the white and blue stallion named Fancy Pants. They all worried.
But worrying isn't the only thing they did. That pony knew, worrying wasn't the only thing buried deep inside a pony.
What else though? What else could be buried inside ponies? Why, sadness of course.
It never pronounced itself, never was it found in a sudden epiphany. No, those who went looking for it, those who were so desperately trying to figure themselves out, they found it. They found it and it devastated them.
This sadness, was acute only to ponies however. The pony on the bench knew. The sadness came from the repetitive, dull, dreary, happy, sunshine filled days. They were the same, in every way, even.
They woke up, and started their morning rituals. Some had coffee, some talked with the neighbors, some ate breakfast, some fed their foals first, some sat with the blinds drawn as they adjusted to the light and dwelled on their lives, some argued with their spouses; those who they had loved for such a long time that it plagued them, haunted them, and drove them to separate. There were those who had no time for their families, donned their garbs and raced out the door at first light, while some sat, remembering things and cried from the nostalgia. Sometimes they thought of better days, sometimes they thought about loved ones who perished or passed on.
Better days.
"Why?” the pony sitting on the bench wondered as he saw an old mare in a shawl stoop and drop in a bench across from him, smiling as she fed the birds in the busy thoroughfare, "Do we always wish for better days?" He sat there, wondering. Is it because we immortalize those days? Bend the memory of that day and make that day stretch into forever so that we can rely on that golden, twisted, warped memory to comfort us in our times of need? When the world spits in our face, or when we just sit still, and let our hustle-bustle lives stop for a moment and let the time, precious, beautiful, wasted time finally slip through our defenses. Whispering about all the things we could have done?
The pony on the bench sat there wondering, when he suddenly spotted another pony; a purple unicorn mare with her head held heavy walking slowly down the sidewalk, utterly ignored by everypony around here as she took a seat next to the pony on the bench. He turned to her, taking in her face and posture. She sat slumped with her head knocking gently, rhythmically against the headrest of the bench. She sat in such a manner that her back legs swung below into empty air, just centimeters above the ground. She sat still, crying without a sound, the tears pooling ever so silently near her front hooves as they fell off her face. And even as she cried, opened her heart to the world, she was ignored. Life continued on, unhindered by one of its pups falling behind. Finally, she started, still unaware of the pony on the bench, "Why is it that they can't see me for me? All they see is the smart one, all they see is a mare who was lucky enough to be picked by the princess of Equestria. All they see is somepony they can depend on. Forever and ever and ever. But no, they never ask her how she's doing, they never ask her what's wrong. They never ask her for anything but for help. Never," She muttered quietly, so very quietly here in her solitude of anonymity. After crying silently for a few more minutes, she wiped her nose and eyes and left, rinsing her eyes of the tears at a nearby water fountain before disappearing back into the crowd.
How is it that we're so careless? Even the most empathetic amongst us attends to his own needs above those of his fellow ponies, and his fellow ponies, afraid of the dogma stating they suffer in silence, shut their mouths. A cycle that repeats itself again and again, leaving the most spectacular and strong of friendships broken in the wake of new truths and years spent in silence. The pony on the bench sat, wondering, "Why is it that we never speak our mind and truly ask for the help we need, instead of the help we want?” But as he sat thinking, he was again joined by a pony who paid him no attention. This pony was a canary yellow pony with a soft pink mane and big blue eyes as hollow as the sky that peered into the ever shifting crowd.
"How is it that they only see the silence? How is it they never ask what's wrong? How is it they never come to visit my home? How is it that they only ask for help when one of their own falls ill? How is it that they ask me to help them, yet they never offer to help me?" She spoke so silently, he had to perk his ears to hear her. She sighed, simply watching the crowd. Her eyes were red, she had probably been crying as she walked. The loneliness and untold truths of herself weighing heavily on both her conscious and soul. She too stood and journeyed off into the crowd.
"How is it then, that we can communicate the incommunicable? How do we say how we feel and have felt? All the pulses of raw emotion and raw, unprocessed thought that lays just beneath the waves of soul?" he thought, watching as another pony, this one a light blue earth pony with a steel grey mane walked sluggishly, a wagon hitched to her midsection. In her eyes and face was a portrait of sorrow and woe. A lifetime of unfulfilled dreams and promises that had come to a head years ago. A broken soul with nothing to live for, that just stumbled along, unseen and unheard. He saw her though, he, and only he, heard her.
Another pony joined him, this one was a pink earth pony with a straightened pink mane. She stared at him for a little while, and he to her, before each respectively looked away. That one look however, had been enough. It had been beyond enough. He saw her, a life that had been filled with superficial joy. A lost soul, striving and trying to find meaning through love, joy, and happiness. But in her eyes, no matter how hard she tried to mask it, it was there. The question that everypony asked himself at one point or another: ”is that it?”
”Is that my entire life? To party and talk and chatter and laugh and bake? Where is the sadness? Where is the reconciliation for the fillyhood spent in cold loneliness? Is this my entire life? Is this it? Is it? Where should I go from here? Should I stay? Should I go? My friends live here though! Why would I abandon them? But why wouldn't I? They never asked, they never saw beyond the bubbly happiness. They never asked if I had troubles of my own, they never asked me what was truly wrong. They never asked, and is that it? To be completely misunderstood for my entire life?” Her eyes, they seemed to meld and harden and grow bitter with each thought that passed through her head. He saw this, the pony on the bench. And after some time, she too left, struggling with her own burdens.
”How is it that we're so superficial, asking, demanding, and turning a deaf ear. Even when our conscious asks us, begs us, to look upon our friends and family. To put aside our ambitions and thoughts to tend to another's pains? How is it that we never listen? And how is it that we let the guilt drive us further into this self-imposed unfeeling nature? How is it that we let our ambitions become us? Taking us over and clouding our morality and judgement?” He asked himself, watching a mare fretting over a letter and letting her little colt cry and cry. As he sat, two more joined him. One was a rainbow and cyan wonder who seemed so agitated that her backlegs bounced and swung above the ground. The other was a pure white pony with a stylized dark purple mane. She too sat, but she was more reserved, thoughtful, and she seemed to sigh more, taking out a letter and reading it. She set it aside, and he read it from the corner of his eye.
My Dear Sweetie Belle,
How are you darling? How are things going in Ponyville? I hope you are doing well without me. Tell Mom and Dad I said Hello.
I'd like to apologize to you, Sweetie Belle. I've been away for too long, and emotionally away for longer than that. I've heard you cry in your room, crying for the love and attention of your sister. I was so busy with my dressmaking that I couldn't even remember your age, always having to resort to guessing.
I can't even begin to start on how wrong this is. Did I ever tell you about the time, when you were a foal, when you cried and screamed. Mom and Dad couldn't calm you down, and in an act of desperation they gave you to me. When I held you, you calmed down. The look in your eyes was one of love, of compassion, and need. Need for love and compassion in return. Love and Compassion I never returned, at least not as much as I should have.
I hope you can accept my apology, Sweetie Belle, though I would not fault you if you did not. Oh, who am I trying to fool here? Chances are, this letter won't even make it to you, likely because I won't be able to bring myself to send it to you. If it does, know that I'm sorry, and that I love you.
-Rarity
The rainbow one looked at her friend, now near sobbing. She sat on the edge of her seat. The pony on the bench saw her, half of her trying to persuade the other half to help. The pony on the bench saw it. He saw the war on her face, and felt the schism in her heart.
"She's fine."
"No she's not fine! She's crying! She's genuinely crying this time!"
"She always cries, those are her problems."
"But she's MY friend! It is my obligation!"
"But what if she doesn't want help? What if she's just going through a phase? What if you try to help her and end up hurting her? Because that's what you do, that's the only thing you do. You take a bad situation and make it worse. You always do, always. We both know it, so just let her sadness run its course."
"But what if she really needs us this time?"
"She's fine."
The two carried on like that a for a little while before the rainbow one sighed in derision and left. The purple maned one waited for a bit, sighing in resignation and dumping the letter before moving off, back into the sea of faces.
Strangely enough however, as soon as she left, another mare came up and sat down on the bench.
The pony on the bench looked at her, and smiled. He always recognized ones like himself. Content at heart, simple ponies who watch the world and see its duplicity and goodness, they see the balance, each in their own way sees it. She was sunset orange with a stark blond mane, big green eyes that seemed to peer out into the world.
"And why is it, that the moment of truth, when we see the true world with all its faults and beauties not as a sequences of random encounters, fated meetings, and lucky happenstances, but as the true, indifferent place we live? Our true home. "
She sat there with him, those ponies on the benches as they stared out into the wilderness, the mare, he noticed, had a cutie mark of three apples all aligned in a triangle.
But he didn't say anything.
Neither of them did.
They were both content to watch, and simply observe.
Eventually she left.
And that pony on the bench? He simply sat there, watching.
