>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.