The Smell of Roasted Oats.

Dramatics come with the everyday moments of yesterday, today, and perhaps even tomorrow. I cannot be certain of tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day that has yet to happen. If I were to say tomorrow was one way, I would need to see the future; which I cannot. It would be like if I were to say 'I am to have oats for lunch'. I am not lying, but how am I to be sure that oats will be available to me? What would happen if a crazed hog broke into the dinning hall and absconded with all the oats? I would be left with the bitter taste of false fortune against my tongue... And what a bitter taste that is. More bitter than week expired coffee grinds scrounged up from the bottom of the lid. Harsh, dark, and filled with failure...

But, nay, dramatics be my point. As pointed to as the most tempered of regal blades. Dramatics, though not certain to rebirth upon the morrow, exists within every harsh, dry, whinny that our tired lungs dare to let out each passing hour. It burns my soul. Burns my soul like the harsh reality of fire lashing against the body and searing to the bone. It's a burn that only haunts the waking soul all the more when the morning star scorches the eyes. But within that lays the true err of existence. Dramatic is dramatic, but at times dramatic is called for. If you misplace your last bit before depositing it within your bank, this is a call for dramatic reaction.

Another cause for it... When the night is brought to the day. The dark ink of pooling shadows are to never mingle with the patronizing cast of warming light. The shadows scamper from the reaper of light; much akin to the spirit of life wanting nothing to do with the curse of looming death. The work against one another... They are to never meet as one. Yet here I am, bathed in horrid light due to the mis-translation between rank.; one that curses me upon every word that crosses my mind. Perhaps I should stop speaking so much. There I go again... It's hard to stop thinking once you grow into a rut. Harder than the harsh reality of stones beating against the hardened path.

I call upon sleep many times at this hour, but my calls fall only into the dread of breakfast plates and dishes clattering to a finish. They served vinaigrette style pumpernickel bread... How I envy them... Escape from this woken nightmare is all lost; much like the final current of death: I must accept the absolute. I have lost... I am to remain here in the morning hours until further notice.

Makers can only tell what this will do to my internal clock. The routine of my sleep has thus been put into a muck. Life is far too cruel at times... As cruel as the splitting edge arctic winds ripping against the small of your bent ears. Until sleep may yet to be reclaimed, I wander as a lost spirit amongst the facades parading through my castle. They all smile and play their joyful demeanor up as I cross paths with them.

"Good morning, Princess Luna." Their mocking tones cut deep into my soul...

Even my own sister; Celestia, humble and just as she proclaims and projects; takes it upon herself to reek words of vile into my wounded form. "Luna? You're up very early. I'll have the chefs make you a nice, relaxing cup of tea to soothe you off to sleep." Mockery... Cruel, unjust, mockery... But what does one come to expect when you are the opposite to the world you now wonder. Like a dog licking at the broken shards of a fallen milk glass dropped by the delivery colt, it's not their place. As too, this is not mine.

Walking these ivory halls, hearing the chatter of morning... chatter... I grow lost in it all. Sinking lower and lower into the loom of my own lingering desire for sleep. In my own daze, I find myself to stumble carelessly to the auditorium. The auditorium... such a dank, abandoned, and rundown ruin of what used to be a true regal gem... This is the price for letting elementary school ponies perform 'Maretrix the Musical' in your hallowed stage. No pony came opening night... Who can blame them? But honestly, that was a week ago... How did the auditorium fall too such a wreck. Makes you wonder... How does anything fall to such a degree?

Shadows are cast before my eyes from the mix of weathered webs, broken seats, and wrecked columns... Again, how did this room grow this bad in only a week? But I digress... What little light comes from the waking world behind me and the dim flickers of the eternal candles that line the columns. What a macabre sight. Akin to the thoughts of haunted abodes or tales of abandoned haunts. Death itself would not step a hoof within these halls. The air itself is... thick... Very thick... Unnaturally thick...

It should smell of mold, vomit, or anything akin to the sights I see. But... It smells soothing in here. Warm as the melting snow on Hearth's Warming Eve as you grow close to the dancing fire in your hearth. Inviting as Autumn's first tender feast. Relaxing... as if this most simplistic of aromas is all that is needed for relief. I... I have never had such a scent grace my senses before... Whatever could it be? The source of the scent is close; as close as a skinflint's penny-purse is to their hip. But where...?

That's when I see it... Dead center of the stage in the auditorium. Lit only by a faded, near concealed lighting source was the inkling silhouette of some sort. I call out to this figure, lost only to the thought of solving the due of this scent. "Hark! What, pray tell, brings forth that overpowering aroma?"

My answer came swift and fast in the vocal chime of a pony I knew not of. "Coffee. Want some?"

...This pony who I did not know, did not introduce myself to, and had not even greeted proper... offered to me this 'coffee'? What manner of world has all evolved into over these thousand years? But, no... I shall never decline such a gift. No. I venture to this pony and their concoction, limps dry and cautious all the same to any such uncertainty. A cup had been filled and put aside for me; filled with this 'coffee'. I bowed my head to thanks and raised the cup with the cusp of my own magical hold. All at once, the scent grew all the stronger. Warm as the melting snow on Hearth's Warming Eve as you grow close to the dancing fire in your hearth. Inviting as Autumn's first tender feast. Relaxing... as if this most simplistic of aromas is all that is needed for relief. The cup touched to my lips and the 'coffee' burned a path down my throat...

"...Let it be known throughout my kingdom... Coffee is thy gift sent upon by the Makers themselves." Rejuvenated. This 'coffee' has done away with all my pain, my dread, my grief. It must be a work of miracle or otherworldly divinity! I feel as though the night is upon me once more! As though my body was given a new life. This... This is the divine power of coffee! "What does't thou call this rejuvenating elixir?"

"Roasted Oats Coffee..." Roasted Oats Coffee... The whole of Canterlot must know of this. I must be the messenger -nay!- the prophet of this 'coffee'! Day or night, I must tell Equestria! I must! And with the aid of 'coffee'... I shall never need sleep again!

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