The Never Charge Model

In a quiet time between the hours, mostly when the day is done and the hours grow long in the gathering dark, a little inspiration hits our adorable princess of literature... I mean friendship.

Twilight is often seen perusing books and fables, amongst tangled cables of thoughts, or looks buried in literature unfolding. But here and now, she approaches, moulding writings she has wrought. The nervously excited alicorn pulls papers slowly, almost tantalisingly deferentially as she brings to bear on a writing surface, with care.

Today, she is contemplating something big. It's grandiose in her mind. It's fantastical and wonderful and magical—more magical than even the world she's in—and gripping and exciting and enticing and... and... it was all hers!

Yes, for this time she didn't create writing for the needs of others, for the expectation that some should stumble upon and read it, but she created something for herself. And so she has fallen in love with the last-abandoned art once more. Our favourite bibliophile is almost overcome with tears as she lovingly crafts the last sentence for a satisfying conclusion.

But what she knows is that this feeling for her story is in her mind.

A trickle of doubt quickly swells.

How can any pony else understand?

An instant's hesitancy becomes a moment.

They couldn't, it isn't theirs. They don't know what it's like to bring up a conception from the void of creative process. To mould and shape an intricate world beheld in her fathomless mind. No, they couldn't understand. Only she would.

A nebulous suspicion crystallises into certainty.

Oh but she wanted to share this joy with some pony else?

And so she digs a little deeper.

Will they like it, not knowing what she knows?

Or worse, will they hate it?

Or worse, even, than that, will they feel betrayed by the expectation in her?

Her neuroticism kicks in. Her brain is in overdrive. Her mind fumbles among the ideas that readily rained down through her to smoothly transfer to paper... only to find it stuck at the gate. It falls off into the void from whence it came, never to come back again.

She is lost.

The little notes are wearily collected and stashed in that secret drawer. Unlike before, so reverently drawn, they lie discarded, almost in disgust.

Probably, she thinks, never to see the light of a candle again.

The dust of what she burned gathered in her mouth.

It tastes gruesomely bitter.

Because it is poison for the soul.

Comments

[pahnazd]

That... ended on a bitter note. So much happiness that came from creation, only to get snuffed out by the fear of how the others will react? So many people go through that... and I wish I could hug every single one of those.
It won't magically solve every problem, but just having someone there can help immesurably.

Speaking of which, hugs in general are a good thing that tend to be a rare commodity. So whether you need it or not, have one as well! /hug