The Very Dense (and god-awful) Pocket Watch · 1:50pm Dec 5th, 2012
Duality
by Mystic
It is a beautiful thing, a properly made pocket watch. Even an untrained eye can appreciate the complexity of such a device, understand the time and effort that has been placed in its creation. But for a trained one, for somepony who understands the watch, it can be another thing entirely.
A watch tells the time, that much is true. That's its function, its purpose. But what it is can be so much more. A watch can be a symbol of status, of power. It can be a key to the memories of a loved one, to the very notion of family and love. It can also be a decoration, a facet of a pony's outfit without which the outfit may never be whole. It is within this way that the watch becomes something more than just an item to tell the time. In that sense, with time, effort, love and more than a little skill, a good watch grows beyond the limitations of its 'purpose'.
And I guess, in a way, aren't we all trying to transcend our own purposes? To become more than what we are? I know I am.
The watch sits snugly inside its vice, the levers clamped down on either side in a firm embrace. Not too tight, lest the metal warps, and not too loose, in case the tools shall slip in its creation. But that is not something I am concerned about in this moment, for this watch is finished. The transparent front reflects the lamplight like a mirror, the glass shining impossibly bright, looking more like crystal than anything else. The black hooves of the watch rest inside, ticking gently the rhythm of its identity. It's the watch's first sounds, the first movements of its life, and I can hear each one like a gasp of fresh air.
It is a hunter watch, so its platinum fob is open, the silvery metal engraved with the family crest of the client -- a great willow tree with weeping branches that caress the ground with a feathery touch. The metal is covered in thin, looping lines of decoration, all intricately hoof-crafted by myself.
I smile thinly. It is finished, and I am more than aware that it is a thing of beauty. I am, without a doubt, proud of this masterpiece, for there are not many who could make such a time piece. Even Pocket Piece himself in his workshop in Manehatten would have trouble matching this watch. And he is a unicorn.
Weak shafts of golden light try to work their way through the thick glass panes of my windows. I look up to watch the dust motes play, enjoying their inevitable descent through the air. My eyes ache, feeling as if weights have been attached to their corners. A grandfather clock chimes out in the far corner, a mournful cry that tries, like the sunlight, to draw me back into the real world.
Six chimes. The aching in my eyes suddenly makes a lot more sense. But it is of little consequence, for the watch is finished. Silverbank will be ecstatic with his commission, of that I am sure.
I get up from the workbench. My joints creak and protest loudly, aching familiarly, cursing my name for their abuse at my hoof. I take a step away from the watch and back towards the door leading to the rest of the house. My stomach has joined the symphony of negative feedback sending angry alerts exploding into life around my body.
I shall wrap the watch later; right now, I need to tend to myself. But even as I walk away, I feel as if the watch calls out to me. It is finished, but it doesn't want me to leave. And I must admit I do not want to leave it. I want to keep working. If I can make something like this, then I should not let the feeling pass; I should not let the inspiration fade into nothing, for that seems like the far greater crime than the indulgence of going back to feed the euphoria.
It would be a tragedy to stop now. I know this. But I also know that understanding is probably a lie. The high is telling me things that it should not. The high is telling me to stay focused, to not let its presence pass into nothing and be wasted. But it's not wasted; at least, I don't think it is. The Silverbank watch is completed and it is perfect. What more can I ask from it?
Everything.
I could but I don't. I leave the workroom, stepping out into the dim corridor. The walls are bare and there aren't any windows, so it is left to a lone lantern suspended from the ceiling to shed light onto my path.
My lounge room is dark like some sort of cave. Cheap furniture fills it to fill space, the carpeted floor tufted and threadbare. Floral curtains hide the windows, the patterned sunflowers golden thanks to the sunlight just starting to stream in from outside. The only item I like is a massive crystal hourglass standing in the corner of the room, framed by golden arms and hinges. It is almost as tall as I am, the silver sand unmoving in the bottom chamber.
I stand in the middle of the room, not doing anything, just standing. There is a pressure growing that thuds remorselessly inside my head. I breathe deeply like I have been told I should; the high is fading. The low will follow soon. Like a horde of ravenous insects following the seasons, the low is coming, eating away with a hunger that will never be sated. Sometimes the high can last days, even weeks. Sometimes the lows can come within a day, just like now. They always follow each other, though, just as surely as the night follows the day.
With great effort, I force to myself to move. I walk over to the hourglass, each step landing heavily. My reflection is distorted in the crystal like the surrealist paintings I have seen in art galleries. My mouth is looped into a look of demented despair, my eyes dragged down into mutated lines screaming at me emotions I do not understand. With a hoof, I reach out and I push the hourglass along well-used hinges, feeling the weight shift as it flips over.
The entire thing shifts, and with a determined rush, the sand begins to flow again.
-----
Hello to any poor souls still reading!
So every now and then, I become totally fucking insane and try to experiment with my style. I get an idea in my head--perhaps something means something to me, or maybe I have a character or something I want to explore, and so without much planning, I jump straight in, seeing what comes from it. I normally do it to flex my writing muscles and try out new things, focusing on improving a particular area of my writing (exposition, perhaps, or maybe show vs. tell, or maybe even dialogue. The list goes on).
Most of the time I just write for a bit before stopping and asking myself, 'Mystic... wat r u doin? :/' and that was essentially what I did with this piece. So it stayed hidden away on my iPad for months until today on the bus, I stumbled across it by accident. Upon reading the scene, I was filled with a terrible urge to cringe, punch myself, and cry at just how awful I can be (all at the same time). Let me tell you, that's a potent cocktail of emotion right there.
Anyway, while it was undoubtedly not my finest moment, it does have some description that I liked, so I reckoned I might throw it up here for your unfortunate eyes. I apologise for the purple, and I swear I am not softening the blow for anything upcoming by me that is suddenly written like an emo and drunk SS&E fic (God I love that man's stories). It was meant to be part of something longer, so that's probably why nothing gets answered or explained, and it was written on an iPad at uni... so... yeah. It's also not edited in the slightest because I wanted to keep it 'raw', for want of a better term.
I dunno. There is just some description I really love, haha. Hopefully you found something in it that you don't hate, too! It's fun to experiment every now and then and see what you can come up with, and I think I should do it more often. Maybe I might even post a few, if you'd be interested.
Alright, back to writing about a certain city of the dead, where the description is clean and concise, and the environment is extraordinary and filled with the epic...
I love fantasy.
Stay sane, you sane guys! 
Whatever else you can say about this piece, the lesson here is very true. Nothing you create will ever be perfect and sooner or later, you have to leave what you've created and let it be what it will be. Perfection will never be achieved.
It's a lesson I find very hard. I'm often afraid to show what I've done, in case its not good enough.
576512 Yeah, that's very hard to do, and I struggle with it myself. Sometimes you just need to throw caution to the wind, though, because I honestly believe that you will always learn and become better with every piece you make, and feedback only speeds that process up.
This was beautiful. Many people don't like this kind of writing, but I always swim in it. I love the descriptions, and I could feel the watch coming together. Thank you for sharing it with us!
I like how it really paints a picture, both of how intricate and detailed the watch is, and his mood and feelings towards it.
I could really see this spiraling into a story about artistic struggle. Maybe how the watch becomes the pinnacle of his work somehow and everything he does afterwards pales in comparison. Adding to that, maybe something along the lines of delivering it, but still being obsessed by it; much like the feeling of buying a really nice birthday present for someone and then really wanting it for yourself instead. Or maybe it is simply lost, mishandled, or maybe even stolen before delivery to it's intended recipient and some sort of crazy dedication to find it again.
I dunno, I'm feeling really oddly creative this morning.
Of course I'm at work where I really can't do anything with it... As usual
576608 Hehe, why thank you! I'm thrilled to hear that you enjoyed it, T.D! After all, I was probably channelling your work at the time, haha.
576632 Heh, thanks for the kind words! If I remember correctly, this was a look at mania (mainly as part of bipolar) and the way it isolates people and beaks them down. Pinkie was going to play a really important role in this, being the catalyst for the eventual positive conclusion. Not completely sure how, though, haha.
i stopped there and asked my self what my purpose may be ...
So this is all about making watches and all kind of clocks.
I'm always and everywhere at least five minutes too late.
Damn..
Eh, what I really want to say. I really enjoy seeing other writers experimenting with their style. It makes me feel like they really want to show that stuff. But more important, that's telling much about the things, the writer really has in his mind, makes him more complex then just a 'here's a story; here's anonther'-guy.
What I think about this one? Well, I wouldn't really recommence to publish it. Not not because it's too bad, but I showed such experiments here and there to other people, and even a little story doesn't seem to draw the reader into attention until he is into the protagonist's problem himself.
The style itself could really become handy as a module in on of your epics. *cough*epicponiesdoingepicthings
Also, this one was constructed very well imho. Nothing happened, we only watched a pony finish a clock and doing a short break, but still it feels like there was a sense in this. To bring this together is not an easy task, and you done a great job there!
(Ha, I'm almost sounding as I would think that I'm nearly as good as your. What a pathetic thought.)
I liked it! yay!
576683
Channeling my work? Wouldn't you rather copy somebody good?
576518
It's not just with artistic endeavors. How many times did I decide not to discus something with my thesis advisor because I was afaid I was asking something too obvious? Protip for anyone reading this: don't do that.
What the shit is this? I can tell that you probably wrote this by smashing your head into your keyboard as you masturbated over donkey porn. Get a real fucking hobby.
Nah. Like I said before, even though some of the stuff here might be a little unnecessary, and even though I still want to yellow this up like a fresh pile of snow, you painted a pretty vivid picture here of making clockwork shit. And the next time you want to punch yourself in the face over something you wrote, think as far back as you can and you can then direct your self-loathing more efficiently. You can also beat up 13-year-old Sessalisk if you want. I wouldn't blame you there, either.
579650 Heh, I actually did research for this one! I learned all about watches! :D
And thinking as far back as I can? Please, that involves being rational and stuff! I want the angst now! D:
576904 I think I did something right then!
577610 Hehe, don't worry! Things are incoming! Works are being prepared and words are being brewed. Regardless, I'm glad to hear that you enjoyed it overall! I was hoping people would get something out of it.
577939 Oh, T.D! You're going to make me laugh to death! You and your ridiculousness...
577995 Ahh, yeah I get you with that. That's never fun
579744
You need to write another sad Luna fic. DO IT
579798 I will make it so fucking purple. I will deep fry it in pseudo-intellectual bullshit and it will make your eyes bleed! And then I will make you read it! Mwhahaha.
579807
And I'm going to write my Big Macintosh/Applebloom clopfic, where I describe Big Macintosh tying Applebloom to a radiator and graping her for decades and decades. And I'm gonna make YOU read it.
579819 Or... OR... we could call a truce and save our dignity?
...I just realised how ridiculous that is. Save our dignity indeed. Pfft
579836
"dignity"
PffffHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
That was a good one!