Like Wind
Convolved (Zk)
-⁂-
My love, one time called stars, one moment called wind, I long for you even if we can't truly know each other not only because distance, but more so by virtue of being. I cannot let you live forever; for it’s me the one that made you live, the life that is at stake.
I have known you, I know most of the time —of what is possible to recall—, you have been spent roaming across this land, a land I have grown to know, wishing to take delight in anything that could have been enjoyed. I had been mildly successful. That is, only after some years of being stranded here, because I know you used to be happier.
Like that time in front of an old apple tree; the one with nothing remarkable about it. It couldn’t be said much about its apples other than being green and waxy, in the same way reminding me of one pony that made, in a sense, the community possible. You read the calendar with fear, because it says that she passed away hundreds of years ago, and though memories are quite hazy, they feel nearer than they should.
It was a ceremony, you should remember better than me. It was held next to this very tree. There was an inconsolable blonde mare. For more years than anyone expected, the deceased had been her mother. You thought it was known that the moment had arrived when she got sick, that they must have tried to prepare themselves, I can say love is all but joy at the loss of someone so dear, thus pain is inevitable.
Of course I was there, despite any silly argument you might argue, how could I remember then? I am most certain that you were there, resting morosely on the barn, from quite the distance, watching silently. You should have been feeling like a stranger perhaps for you to act that way. Yes, you were likely ashamed of being senseless of the whole situation, or so you make me think. It shouldn't be that way. It’s not ‘I should not judge you’, that way I would not be helpful, just ask yourself if it isn't selfish trying to provoke pain to oneself when there is no feeling of loss?
“For all that must be,” You lied to the air. It simply stalls through the decayed tree branches, muting your constrained thoughts just enough to be unheard, but I had come to know before you recalled. Unsurprisingly, you walk away.
The sun rises and you come back to your 'senses', because I see you notice a brown pony slowly carrying a bucket full of red apples. That pony, never accepts help, just like her grandmother. She has a wooden bucket for cutie mark. You don’t greet her, you were quite slow to talk to her. It could be because at a distance her mane and cutie mark mixes with the fur color, making her a bit hard to recognize. In the other side, I am inclined to suppose you have become oblivious of some facts, or rather indifferent.
She enters to the nearby building. After some time, as suspected, she gets out and sits in the chair where generations of proud ponies have sat to rest from a fine day of work. It’s an Apple. She quickly falls asleep, a trait shared with her ancestors when they reached old age. She likes to talk in her sleep in a very special way, which is the reason I always wait here every Tuesday, waiting for the right time.
To be more precise, Sleepy Apple (as you like to call her) can talk with me in a sense, which is appreciated in a world that can’t hear you. At first I thought she could talk to me like you can talk usually but she didn’t seem to remember anything after talking with me. Yet, it is of some use.
Because today it’s time.
I move the air, and Sleepy answers, “Who is there?”
“The Wind,” I whisper.
After a small pause she talks. “Hello Windy, what brings you here? Have you come for the ladder you lent me?” she asks with all the sincerity a half sleeping pony could.
It seems we got your attention because you turn to see the lonely old pony talking while asleep, quite the strange thing. Being curious as you are, you come near to verify you are not imagining things.
“No, you can keep it if you want, I have dozens of it.” I would have smiled saying that. “I want to ask you a question.”
“What is it Windshy? You say you want to know how to knit underwater? ” The last statements manages to get a smile from you.
“Not really, I doubt I would need that kind of knowledge, but thanks” I say. “I want your advice, I’m feeling lost as of recently, I don’t know what to believe or pursue.”
“My granddaughter makes similar questions. She is all immersed in finding her special talent that she forgets the most important thing.”
“And what is it,” you faintly murmur.
“Life you don't say?” she says, “it’s a pretty wonderful thing; I can say it’s the most beautiful thing ever. I see the grandchildren of mine and feel immeasurable joy. I see the marvels of the sky and I rejoice. I remember the days that have passed, and still, I’m happy, and in the end I will know I made what I have come to make”
“Not exactly what I asked…” you stop perplexed, knowing you had started reciting an old memory, realizing you are not talking to her.
“Not exactly what I asked. I want to know how to see the light in some situations, when there seems to be no end” I say, knowing I made the right choice of words to induce the kind of response you need my love. I know it hurts to remember, but its against being to erase what made oneself who is.
“Harmony unites ponykind, the old saying says, as our world seeks balance in most subtle ways, sentience should seek the same ideal; I have found enough for me enjoying how life is, not what is for because, dear, I would never know” she says.
“It’s always a pleasure to talk with you,” you think. You try to conceal the tears but you end running. Never, you thought, but it is needed because we need you to search. Now crying, further away, softly, “Princess,” is spoken.
-¤-
August 2nd 1198 AN
I… I don’t understand. After so much time I'm feeling afraid, I'm not sure why. If this is another trick of my mind, I think I'm going insane.
Today I just had a terrible nightmare, except I think I was awake, most importantly they appear to know. They have to… I may have been hearing things, because that day never existed to them, she made so... or she told me that. This just happens when starting winter season, Sun Glyph's suggestion of taking some relaxed days has proven to be harmful to my mind, I must add more activities.
In more productive thoughts, I think I must have fallen asleep while brewing some herbs in the Whitetail woods (Which herbs?) because I woke up with the sight of a golden leaves in my face. (Searchfor temporary memory loss effects)
All carefully selected and prioritized tasks scheduled for this week ans the previous one have been done. As a result I have found nothing of interest in the remaining part of the of the week. It occurred to me, that I could visit some place of the planet, after all I can travel anywhere I want, but something drives me to this town every time.
I can’t deny it; I like this town beyond what I can explain.
Maybe it is the hospitality they show, the wideness of the streets, the uncomplicated building style, or the warmness of ponies that inhabit here that makes this place very special to me. Even the thought of exploring the whole expanse of Equestria feels unsatisfying, yet is not unknown to me; I did have wandered and found myself in distant locations, from the frozen north to the sand dunes, from the populous cities to isolated volcanic valleys. Yet every time I find my way back here, like if I had a calling to remain here.
Today is market day. Many streets are full of ponies trading and bartering. It is such an exquisite aroma. The air feels like velvet, velvet woven of fruit scent and slow chatter. Even the rare unexpected disturb ends in a pleasant note. Is not the where, I see, but rather the who makes this place so wonderful.
I wish I could meaningfully express my affection for them. (I have tried, did I?)
But thinking about it a little, I conclude not being able to be heard is a blessing. I’d prefer to make up to my name, even if no one notices. I don’t know when I stopped showing up. After some years, everypony forgot that a mare with my name lives here.
There is a story though, purely an invention out of necessity and comparison; it didn’t fit me, it was always stolen, that the spirit of magic lives here and like to talk through the wind. I made it up when some little colt asked a really weird question for one of his age, “What if the sea became void of its marvels and resources? Who would discern if it was the original sea they knew, or if it was replaced?”
I do not recall exactly how I answered, but the argument was like, “it does not matter because its sea anyways, so the question is non-sensical from a finite spectator, and since there is nopony who knows everything, we cannot know.” I know, I know, it is a silly notion, but I had to say something to the kid. He seemed quite happy with the answer though.
-§-
Princess Celestia rested ceremoniously on her throne. That’s what it was seen at a first glance. If one paid attention to minute expressions like tensed spine, slight darkening around the eyes and a smile just millimeters off you could say she was distressed to a point considered panic. But one never know with the Solar Princess.
Princess Celestia sat in the dining room, her eyes focused in some immaterial substance (nothing really). Luna was facing her at the other side of the oversized table. The table was supposed to be used for small informal occasions, after all there was a dining hall, but the advisors insisted that the cost of moving the huge furniture and the chance of running out of space in the main hall outweighed the augmented distance between casual commensals.
To her it was just a morbid lump of wood, full with form but insubstantial.
Dozens of ponies agglomerated the room. They wore formal attires and sat in staged benches, set up just for the occasion. The structure was far from pretty, but it was big enough and was the only usable since the court room had a fire last Tuesday.
Princess Celestia held immobile her cup, just to her side. It was an tan herbal infusion of intended to increase alertness.
“Sister?” said a voice from the other side of the table. “You have not even sip your tea, despite you were the one to request it,” she said. “And you have held that cup on position for more than five minutes.”
Dozens of ponies agglomerated around. They wore formal attires and sat in staged benches, set up just for the occasion. The structure was far from pretty, but it was big enough and was the only usable since the court room had a fire last Tuesday.
“I differ,” she said drinking the tea for the first time. “I just was enjoying the scent.”
“Thousands of years have not changed the fact you make terrible excuses.” And a terrible taste for drinks. “I must ask,” she placed he empty cup with a purposeful clunk, “What is it that holds your thoughts so strongly?”
