>Slept in again.
>There’s no need for a clock to know that.
>It’s a feeling that just exists.
>Still need more sleep, otherwise.
>Body refuses to stay awake long enough to get everything done.
>Time is finite, though.
>Moreover, today is likely to be another repeat-
>Get through the tasks, nothing more.
>First, coffee.
>This is the only correct way to start things off on the right hoof.
>Fill pot, light the burner, and eventually, a soft, bubbling burble echoes in a slow rhythm.
>The process would be much faster if it was done with one of those newer pots.
>But this old one is reliable.
>That sounds like-
>Just wait.
>Watch the small wisps of steam rising up and into the air, vanishing out of sight altogether at unknown points.
>There’s an internal clock that gives way to the knowing of when to stop.
>All that’s left is a steaming pot soon afterwords.
>Fill up a cup.
>No cream.
>No sugar.
>Nothing extra, period.
>Leave it black.
>Stronger and more effective.
>Blow on it softly, easing away the heat.
>Then, slowly, the first sip is had.
>A light fire upon tongue, which alight the senses and mind.
>Ears perk, a sigh uttered, and with that, the first task is complete, speeding things up.
>Second, review.
>Old work, that of yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day-
>Each piece is given time to examine it in its entirety.
>Every one is weighed for the overall design.
>Like the flaws to note, as well as as the perfections.
>Criticisms to level, such as the common case of too much line pressure, or how certain colors do not blend.
>Then there’s the shading in certain ways, like the side of a cottage, which makes it appear artificial.
>Or the face of the pony in a crowd, who’s distorted features draw far too much attention to it.
>And the feathers on the-
>The task is finished; no need to dwell on it any further.
>Last, inspiration.
>Draw back the curtains in every room.
>All throughout the outside world, life teems so much, but especially in color.
>A pair of birds meet in a tree, chirping to one another.
>Their coats, bright blue, breath more courage and vibrancy than other blues could.
>Around them, the flora – trees, grass, and bushes – each gently swaying to the invisible wind.
>The blades of grass, the small leaves, they dance; animating in ways that few could ever hope to grasp.
>Up above, in the shifting lilac sky, puffy white clouds drift along.
>Those textures – both above and below – are difficult, but not impossible to capture.
>Not another pony to be seen out there, not that there needs to be.
>The world is fine without them, and moreover, this is enough to be seen to fuel the fires.
>What time left is limited, however.
>Shut the curtains, close off the world.

>There still needs to be light.
>Candles are set about, all for the effort to assist in the single purpose.
>Pull out a fresh and clean canvas.
>Tools are placed easily within reach.
>Now, create.
>Amid the occasional, soft scratching, followed by a hushed breath or two, there are moments are silence.
>That’s how creation goes here.
>This is not the creation born from quill, nor birthed by clay or stone.
>Sketching.
>If it is correct, then colors will be breathed into it.
>It is through sketching that skill is proved.
>That’s how you tend to view it, anyway.
>Personal thoughts aside, it’s a common test and effort to undertake.
>Self-imposed, yet not any greater or lesser than how a teacher would give it to a student.
>Everything takes time; the length of which varies, from hours to uncounted days.
>No need to keep track of exact time, for it is perfection that takes priority.
>Though once in the long gone past, the former was true.
>That lead to-
>Things are different nowadays, but they still both pose a risk and reminder of what can go wrong.
>Nothing can or should impede creation.
>Blood, sweat, tears, that’s how some describe it.
>Most ponies treat it as a metaphor, few knowing how it is often quite literal.
>Enough thinking, concentrate.
>Distractions are a poison.
>If allowed, they’ll rip apart work as though it were tissue paper.
>Those mistakes made by it are unforgivable.
>Examples of those sit in a nearby pile.
>Somepony will buy them, many more consider them even acceptable for whatever reason.
>Then there’s the special pieces.
>Those are safely tucked away.
>Most are about a peg-
>You pause.
>With a slow head shake, you close your eyes, followed by a sharp inhale, then a slow exhale.
>Attention shifts back to the canvas.
>Sketching continues.
>Complete it, perfect it, stick to discipline to ensure it.
>Capture the essence in a vivid moment.
>Deny the echos of the past, especially those of the dreaming world.
>Concentrate.
>Focus.
>Be light as a feather-
>Sketching stops.
>Coffee is turned to.
>You utter a contended sigh after a deep sip.
>There, better.
>You look over what’s currently being worked on.
>A magical place, somewhere far.
>There’s a broad, nearly empty sky that covers the uppermost portion of the canvas.
>Mountains line the horizon, with rolling hills that extend outward.
>At the foot of those, a forest that spreads forth until it reaches a valley near the bottom half.
>So many details left to refine.
>All necessary.
>Most important among all of this, the pony in the center, with-
>Distractions.
>All self-inflicted.

>Have another cup, two, or several of coffee.
>It’s cold.
>Little to care about.
>’This poison shouldn’t be relied on’, suggests a thought.
>’Nothing would get done without it,’ answers another.
>The picture is looked over again.
>From there, you retrieve your pencil, letting work fall back in order.
>Everything moves in harmony, just as it should.
>Soon enough, the sketching is finished.
>Spend some time on deciding how to proceed from here on out.
>This piece has a familiarity to it.
>A sense of knowing, which guides.
>Nodding, you pick up a brush, wet it, then begin to apply color.
>The room becomes noticeably dimmer at some point.
>Candles are getting low.
>A peek is given to the curtains, showing no light; the day must have left.
>Lips press together into a tight, thin line.
>Another pause to break the flow, cutting into time.
>Light some more candles, with some having to be adjusted.
>Though afterwords, they highlight something about the piece, giving way to an even greater pause.
>With surgical-like precision, you very, very carefully go over every centimeter of it.
>Curves followed, as well as the simplest lines.
>Shadows compared and contrasted, along with shapes and sizes of any and all things.
>Judgment comes in the form of a hushed, heavy sigh.
“This part is sketched wrong.”
>To the untrained, they wouldn’t know the difference.
>’This is as obvious as the sky,’ speaks a cold tone.
>Somepony once said there are no mistakes, just happy little accidents.
>They’d be wrong.
>’This piece cannot be saved; toss it into the mistake pile, if not outright destroy it.’
>An opposite, younger voice comes about, ‘Don’t do it.’
>There’s a debate that goes on.
>Enough of that.
“Fix it,” you mutter as you pick up pencil and erasure.
>A great deal of care will be needed.
>’Such a waste,’ argues the cold. ‘This consumes so much time.’
>Nothing to be done about that.
>In spite of that, brief flashes of memories state otherwise.
>Laughs, jeers, judging, trashing, breaking, tearing-
>Focus.
>Far too much invested.
>Don’t think about it.
>The only way forward is to-
>Sitting back a moment, you exhale a shaky sigh.
>Nerves are on edge.
>Concentration refuses to stop wavering.
>The late hour must be contributing to that.
>Sleep can wait, this cannot.
>Consume the rest of the coffee, despite it being cold.
>Shortly thereafter, a light buzz stirs.
>All other things fade into the background, leaving the labor to go on without further delay.
>When the corrections come to an end, it’s welcome.
>Still, a reevaluation is needed.
>Lines to traces, shapes to compare, and mental images to refer to.

>Seconds.
>Minutes.
>Hours.
>Who knows, really.
>A decision is still reached, all the same.
“...everything is right where it should be.”
>A strong yawn forces its way out from the depths of your throat, drawing your ears back a tad.
>No clock to know the time, but that’s because clocks are a distraction.
>You already know that, much like how many other things are known.
>’This should be proof to stop until morning.’
“Well…”
>’No, there is much more to do.’
>’Remember: time is finite.’
>Any resistance is deafened when the brush is picked up, wet, then painting starts again.
>Occasional pauses are still given, only out of necessity to avoid further accidents.
>Those pauses, however, are starting to grow longer.
>Vision blurs every now and then.
>Thoughts grow slowly distorted.
>The body’s needs are nothing but pests.
>Coffee is the solution.
>You start a fresh pot.
>In the meantime, annoyance festers.
>Work is already difficult, but of course your body just has to add onto that.
>You sigh.
“This isn’t helping any…”
>Deep within, a sleeping giant begins to stir.
>The heart beats like it were normal, but in truth, demands a change.
>Rather, a desire.
>Two of them.
>The first, the most basest, though easily among the most important – love.
>Days and nights here, with but a bed, table, tools and canvases, it’s empty to say the least.
>No amount of art made can fill that void.
>Then there’s the second, it’s different, it relies on-
>A sudden, loud burble kills the thought, forcing a squeak from you.
>Realization follows.
“St-stupid pot.”
>Fill a cup, take no hesitation in having a greedy gulp.
>Regret is immediate when the fire hits
*cough-cough-cough!*
>You mutter a few curses, taking a moment to recover from the brainless act.
>Back to work.
>Even with the aid of coffee, the giant is awake.
>’Ignore it.’
>Desires cannot be ignored forever.
>In this case-
“Don’t, just… don’t.”
>You set aside the brush.
>A soft shaky breath is exhaled, then a sip of coffee had.
>It’s cooler to the tongue, though that doesn’t apply to the ache everywhere else.
>You look over your work.
>What colors are there are coming along nicely; blending in the ways that they are supposed to.
>The pony at the forefront has taken on more definition due to it.
>An easily identifiable mare with a short mane and tail.
>Her eyes are squeezed shut in bliss, joined by a large, toothy smile that goes from ear to ear.
>No earthly chains to hold her down.
>No wrongness about her view.
>No cruel fate to twist her.
>Most of that owing to her large pair of elegant wi-
>Another sip of coffee is had, albeit a larger one.

>Go back to work for a time.
>The invisible clock ticks away.
>And the whispers rouse.
>’Nothing ever changes, now does it?’
>Hoping.
>Waiting.
>Praying.
>Wishing.
>All for nothing.
>Equestria? Same as it was on the day you were born.
>Home? Same as it was when it was first bought.
>You? You never changed.
>Still wearing worthless piercings.
>Still lying to yourself.
>Still trapped in-
“Stop.”
>A slave to creation.
“N-no, I’m-”
>Answer this: why does the caged-
“SHUT UP!”
>With a slam of your hoof, there’s a loud clatter, with your pencils, brushes, and paints jolting; some crashing to the floor.
>An echo of your shout lingers for too long throughout your home.
>Heavy breaths come and go, with your small frame quivering like a leaf.
>’What do you hope to accomplish by screaming at shadows?’
>Eyes squeeze shut, followed by an utterance of a tiny whimper behind pursed lips.
>This incident was born from nothing.
>’How pathetic.”
>It should be all the evidence that sleep is needed.
>But there is still much to do on this piece, so why stop now?
“Because.”
>’Because why?’
“Because-”
>‘-why does the caged bird cry?’
>In an instant, your eyes shoot open wide.
>None of this is normal.
>No living relatives.
>No friends.
>No lover.
>No nothing.
>There’s just you, staying cooped up in a cage of your own making.
>That’s not how ponies are supposed to live.
>All for what, making art that no pony will ever see?
“N-no! It’s going to be great, I’m going to show them all, and it’ll prove that I am perfectly-”
>’-not normal.’
>The walls of the room begin to descend, drawing themselves like they were a stampede.
>Breathing turns sharp as you fall to the floor, curling yourself up defensively.
“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not.”
>’But they are.’
“It’s-”
>’-true.’
>Everything repeats in a cycle, just as fresh as when it first started.
>Your chest tightens.
>Eyes stay open, in spite of the overwhelming need to shut them.
>In the midst of this chaos, the unfinished piece, acting like a monument.
>The mare in the middle, who you want to be.
>A pegasus.
>No feathery wings of your own; trapped within an earthen body not much different than a stone.
>’How would one such as yourself, a flightless bird, ever hope to escape the confines of this prison?’
>A sniffle is all that can be mustered.
>Then, a loud, choked sob.
>Try as you might, there is no stopping what’s to come.
>Cries wrack out.
>Trapped and alone, stuck within a cold and empty home, unable to escape this fate.
>An earth pony who denies who they are, what they are, longing to be something they can never be.

>To be normal.
>To be a better artist.
>To have friends.
>To have somepony to love, and to love back.
>To be a pegasus, to fly free like they do.
>Just a mistake, not a happy accident.