-
>There’s so much talk, but it’s about nothing interesting.
-
>Who cares about history, really?
-
>You turn to speak to another pony, but are immediately ignored.
-
>Looking to everypony else, it’s all the same.
-
>Why is it like that?
-
>One minute, you’ll get in with a group.
-
>The next, that might as well never have happened.
-
>It’s like being… invisible.
-
>This isn’t supposed to happen.
-
>Too much has been done to prevent exactly /that/.
-
>Is it the mane and tail?
-
>No, it’s the same style as it’s always been.
-
>What about the makeup, is that off?
-
>It can’t be, at least, it shouldn’t be.
-
>Then- wait.
-
>Did the bell just ring?
-
>Everypony is leaving now.
-
>The day just started, though.
-
>It doesn’t matter, get up, go along like everypony else does.
-
>That’s the way it’s supposed to be.
-
>It’s hard to pay attention sometimes.
-
>The mind wanders, often to places far away, or deep within.
-
>Scatterbrained, that’s what some call it.
-
>No pony is talking, well, not to you.
-
>Ignored.
-
>Any momentum begins to leave.
-
>No matter what way it’s approached, every day ends this way, it seems.
-
>And always, it’s at a random point completely unknown to you.
-
>Once outside, the world feels lost, too.
-
>Because despite being the middle of the afternoon, it feels much later.
-
>There’s faces, going which and everyway, but never give even so much a glance your way.
-
>Voices, but they’re kept to their groups.
-
>None of them want to include, well… you.
-
>Silence soon falls.
-
>Even the world itself joins in that quiet chorus.
-
>The sky above is without sunshine.
-
>Gray clouds blot it out for as far as the eye can see.
-
>Those trees seen are stiff.
-
>Life yet lifelessness.
-
>A sigh leaves you.
-
>Some ponies would call a day like this bad.
-
>They also say that those come every now and then, but never last forever.
-
>If that’s the case, why does it feel like they’ve been growing longer with each day?
-
>There are some differences, such as movi-
-
>No, don’t think about it.
-
>Focus on the positive.
-
>Easy to say, harder to do.
-
>Things often feel much more different.
-
>Foals think that way, which would make you a-
-
>Stop it.
-
>Don’t deny it.
-
>But-
-
>Being a misfit is a truth – a state of being for you.
-
>Every part of yourself turns heavy, with slowed, mechanical-like movements that start to carry you along.
-
>Your gaze falls, kept to the road, bobbing in time to the steady steps.
-
>It’s like there’s a leech sapping the life out.
-
>When did it become like this?
-
>Better yet, why did /you/ let it happen?
-
>No answer.
-
>Absent.
-
>Heh, funny word.
-
>That’s one that describes your life to a T.
-
>It shouldn’t be that way.
-
-
>Don’t think about it.
-
>Keep moving forward, eyes trained anywhere but back behind.
-
>That’s a cope, and you know it.
-
>So what, if it keeps you going, then it’s fine.
-
>Moreover, it’s the lighthouse in the darkness of the storm, guiding your weary ship to a safe haven.
-
>What a weird thought.
-
>Kinda poetic, though, isn’t it?
-
“...suppose.”
-
>It’s from that poetry book you’ve been reading so much.
-
>It gets you more than anypony does.
-
>That’s messed up.
-
>No-
-
>Because you’re messed-
-
>Stop it.
-
>Various homes of shapes and sizes are passed by, drawing away your attention.
-
>The yards are not much different.
-
>But like everything else, there is not a soul to be seen, not since the last bell rang earlier.
-
>What would it matter if there was one?
-
>You could talk to them, and-
-
>Any of them would hold the same looks, the same feelings, towards you.
-
>Maybe it will be diff-
-
>No exceptions. Now, ask yourself this: do you /really/ want that?
-
“...no.”
-
>Good, at least that’s something that you understand.
-
>Things wouldn’t be that way if everypony would stop being against you for whatever reason.
-
>There *is* a reason: you’re a misfit to them.
-
>Stop thinking about it.
-
>A slowed, delayed glance is given towards one of the houses passed.
-
>Like the trees, it’s stilled, the features appearing as though they will never, ever change.
-
>Almost every house along the block is identical – same colors, same shapes, same general idea.
-
>That’s wrong.
-
>They should stand out proudly, like you do.
-
>Where would that lead?
-
>…
-
>Stop thinking about it, then.
-
“It’s not that-”
-
>You shut your mouth.
-
>Gaze falls forward again.
-
>Ponies shouldn’t hear you talking to yourself, least they think you’re weirder than you already are.
-
>At the end of the block, far up ahead, a single house steals away everything.
-
>While it highly resembles the rest, it has just enough of a difference to make it stand out in its own, special way.
-
>Home.
-
>A small, candle-like light flickers to life from within.
-
>In that moment, a pull swells, growing stronger and stronger.
-
>For the first time since the day started, everything picks up – breathing, heartbeat, and more.
-
>Sunlight peeks through the cloud curtain, seemingly on cue.
-
>All of the monochrome vanishes.
-
>And it’s only now that you realize that you’re galloping at full speed.
-
>Nothing matters, not in this final stretch.
-
>Everything is within reach.
-
>Because regardless of how the day has gone so far, there can finally be some peace to it.
-
>You blitz through the front yard, up to the door, the entirety of you brimming with energy.
-
>You grasp the handle to turn it, yet…
-
“Huh?”
-
>...it doesn’t turn fully.
-
>A pause is given.
-
>Then, the handle is tried again.
-
>Locked.
-
>It should not be locked.
-
>It /cannot/ be locked, not when you need to see your-
-
>Stop it.
-
>In spite of that command, the locked door remains unchanged.
-
-
>All at once, everything – inside and out – returns to its former, gray, heavy state from moments ago.
-
>Stay.
-
>Go.
-
>Indecision.
-
>Inaction.
-
>Inward, stupid thoughts.
-
>You know who’s stupid-?
-
>With an absentminded retrieval of keys, you unlock and open the door.
-
>Slowly, you shuffle inside.
-
>Much like the world outside, it’s totally inside in here.
-
>There’s actual color to be had, though.
-
>Meaning is held, not lost.
-
>Despite know better, an old habit, driven by a remnant, kicks in.
-
“I’m home!”
-
>Silence.
-
>There will be a time when that is different, right?
-
>Don’t ask stupid questions.
-
>Instead, think of how this is just a coincidence.
-
>That’s a lie.
-
>It doesn’t hurt so much.
-
>You trudge through the living room, bits of things catching your gaze for a second or two.
-
>The furniture is all new, like it just came from the store floor.
-
>Little trinkets on shelves, holding traces of places once visited.
-
>Pictures hang along the walls, moments in time captured.
-
>All of them are the same – nothing lasts forever.
-
>Everything is so familiar, but…
-
>No.
-
>Thoughts tune out upon entering the kitchen.
-
>A nice large, open room, yet not much different in terms of newness or lifelessness.
-
>Except for a single, solitary difference.
-
>Sitting atop the table, a written note.
-
>The words are read through carefully, clinging to the voice of their owner.
-
>All but one part is disregarded: we have to work late again.
-
“Ha… ha… so funny.”
-
>It’s the joke that never gets old, right?
-
>It’s an excuse.
-
>Wrong, it’s a lie, a very, /very/ cruel one.
-
>How many times has it been written, said, or read?
-
>How many more times will that repeat?
-
>How much more will it last?
-
>Ask yourself that.
-
>You grit your teeth.
-
>A light creak escapes from your mouth.
-
>Nothing is right about any of this.
-
>And knowing how the pattern goes, it will soon be followed by mov-
-
“No, just… no.”
-
>Why not try to change it?
-
>Stupid question, it’s already been answered.
-
>You can beg.
-
>You can plead.
-
>You can do anything.
-
>But that won’t change how everything stays in the cycle.
-
>From deep inside of you, an emotion bubbles to the surface.
-
>In an act and a grow, the note is nothing more than a mess of confetti, soon deposited into the trash.
-
>This form is better.
-
>No pain.
-
>No want.
-
>No worry.
-
>Absence may be a bane, but this one created by you is just a tiny bit better.
-
>Leaving behind the downstairs, you venture up.
-
-
>The last door at the end of the hall stands out.
-
>Decorations adorn it, with art, cutouts from magazines, and more, all of that you’ve collected or made over time.
-
>Standing in front that door, it’s…
-
>You open it, with a soft, sound escaping.
-
>Some would’ve mistaken that for creaky hinges.
-
>To you, however, it’s a warm, grateful noise.
-
>Because in there, everything is safe, all right, good, and just.
-
>Your bedroom.
-
>Dropping your things to the wayside, you make a beeline to the large system gathered at the corner of the room.
-
>You slowly trace a hoof over it, drawing a small smile across your lips.
-
>This is the single most important possession.
-
>It always gives more back so much.
-
>And with one flick of a switch, it starts up.
-
>Music floods the room in a tidal wave.
-
>Throughout the day, weight was carried, added on, and forced to bear.
-
>Actions – both yours and others – did that.
-
>They don’t accept you.
-
>They never will.
-
>Hurt is all that-
-
>That thought is cut short by a heavy bass drop.
-
>Music aids in easing the troubles.
-
>That poetry book you bought recently also helps in that.
-
>On the occasion when there is… somepony else here, earphones have to be relied on to enjoy either.
-
>While that does give it a unique kind of effect, it doesn’t feel nearly as free.
-
>At least being alone here and now, everything can be loud and proud.
-
>Being alone might as well stay that-
-
>Stop it.
-
>It’s normal, though.
-
>Wrong.
-
>How so?
-
>Thinking anything that contradicts it doesn’t help.
-
>No, it doesn’t.
-
>Things would be better if those gloomy thoughts were absent, unlike… well, you know.
-
>True, but at least those thoughts don’t want to move all the time.
-
>Eyes squeeze shut.
-
>Ears clamp down.
-
“Don’t think about it.”
-
>Don’tthinkaboutdon’tthinkaboutit-
-
>A thunder of music ends that thought.
-
>Breathing gradually eases.
-
>Eyes open.
-
>Ears go up.
-
>Same room, same house.
-
>It’s okay.
-
>Though it would be more okay if things could finally stay put, or be removed as easily as your appearance.
-
>That would make it fake, then.
-
“That’s not- it’s not…”
-
>No need to finish that sentence, especially when it would be a lie.
-
>Piercings? Fake.
-
>Collar? Fake.
-
>Scars? Yep, also fake.
-
>Even the style of your mane and tail, they’re fake, too.
-
>There’s so little of you that is authentic.
-
>Most ponies know that.
-
>Even if you were tell them the truth, they’d think you were lying or something.
-
“I’m not…”
-
>You’re not what… a fake, a poser?
-
>Remember: no pony will EVER accept you for who you are.
-
>If, by some chance, you could go back to how you once were, nothing would change.
-
>That’s why you have to alter yourself so much, just to fit in.
-
-
>Yet still, you are invisible.
-
“Just…”
-
>No.
-
“...stop, please.”
-
>Things don’t change, no matter what you do.
-
>Focus on the music.
-
>Why bother?
-
>It’s gentle, soothing.
-
>For how long?
-
>The lyrics understand.
-
>Don’t kid-
-
>They don’t hurt.
-
>A-
-
>And now, they’re carrying you away; the melody sweeping you off your hooves.
-
>Words flow free, no longer constrained by pain.
-
“~It’s okay that everything was bad~
-
~It’s okay that everything was sad~
-
~It’s okay that nothing went your way~
-
~In the end, life goes on, come what may~”
-
>Huh, a set of rhymes.
-
>That book seems to be rubbing off on you.
-
>Maybe these could be written down, perhaps even into a song.
-
>You could share it.
-
>Everypony would like that, and then they would-
-
>The dancing stops, not with a thought, but with a truth.
-
>You know how it plays out.
-
>It’s better to keep things as they are now.
-
>Ponies notice that state.
-
>They listen.
-
>They talk.
-
>Turn a blind eye to everything else.
-
>After a moment or two, you return to dancing.
-
>While the music plays, a series of actions take over.
-
>One by one, piece by piece, accessories are removed.
-
>The fewer there are, the more things change.
-
>Even after removing the last, it’s still not enough.
-
>Down comes your mane with a pull of a tie, followed by your tail in the same fashion.
-
>It all falls free, the way it’s meant to be.
-
>Dancing within the sanctuary of your bedroom, when no pony is around, a rare event can take place.
-
“~False idols removed~
-
~Pains now soothed~
-
~But the real is so near~
-
~Forever true, forever here~
-
~So a tit for a tat~
-
~Be yourself, Kitkat~”
-
>Nothing left to fake.
-
>It won’t last long, but it’s enough for now.
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon