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// What is love? 
// Story: What is love? 
// by Anonymous Pegasus 
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What is love but obsession? What is love but a construct of a mind trying desperately to keep something close?

What is love? And why don’t I understand it?

I’ve asked myself these questions and a million more since engaging in a relationship with this pony. It’s been two months now, and I think, maybe, that I’ve fallen in love. It’s an odd sensation, to be frank. I’ve always felt love, right since I was hatched. You see, I am a changeling, a creature of the night, a trickster and a demon.

Many moons ago, my queen’s plans failed us, and we were scattered. Without leadership, without direction, we went to ground. At least, that is what I choose to believe. I have heard nothing from my brethren, and, if I am being truly truthful...I have no wish to find them.

From what I understand, not a lot is known of my kind amongst the ponyfolk. We are a whisper in the wind, a spectre that steals in under cover of trickery and disguise, destroy all that we touch, and then disperse, leaving a glorious trail of proud destruction in our wake.

Far be for it to me, a mere changeling, to change your misconceptions about us. We are an artifact of nature, we are predators. Do you fault the lion for feeding upon the gazelle? Do you fault the anteater when it destroys an ant’s nest? Do you feel anger towards a dragon when it feasts upon a defenseless gemstone?

And what are ponies but gemstones? They are a mere collection of biological material ripe for harvesting. One would even go so far as to say that we, the changelings, are a much more elegant creature in our habits than a mere pony. We do not destroy that which feed upon. We feed upon love, we sustain ourselves with it. Love is not destroyed when it is harvested. It is not consumed, but merely redirected to us. Do the ponies we impersonate lose anything when the love is directed away from them? No, they do not. They are merely inconvenienced.

I put it to you that changelings are the lesser of evils in this world. Were we to feed upon our victims truly, to sustain ourselves with their flesh, then we would be monsters. Then we would be demons.

The truth is, we changelings are not so bad, in the grand scheme of things. We tend to isolate our targets while their partners are away, surprise them as their lover come home early. And then, we leave. No harm done. We continue to live, and the pony is unharmed. If we use our magic right, they usually don’t even notice the transition. Our magic is exceptionally good at muddling the minds of our prey.

But as with all creatures of stealth, it is the ones that are most visible that shape the view of our entire species. You do not fear the jaguar who hides in the shadows, stalking you out of interest, never seen or heard. You fear the jaguar that cries a challenge from the darkness and makes its presence known, and the thousand others who chose not to harm you are tarred with the brush you apply to the loud jaguar.

And so it is that our misguided queens reveal our species, and give us a bad name. It is a cycle of life, perhaps, that we are constantly dragged into the light. Ponies are reminded of our presence, and we are forced to refine our techniques and our habits before fading from history again, until another queen can choose to reveal us with a bold plan.

We, like the pegasus, and the unicorn, and the earth pony, are creatures of habit and need. We need love to exist.

Who better to understand love than us, who seek it our entire lives, and require it to exist?

And yet, laying here, on this ponies couch, in his home, in front of his fire, curled in his embrace, I realise that I know nothing of love.

I know how to attain it, how to trick a pony into giving it to me, and I even know how to make a pony fall in love with me. But of love itself? I am ignorant.

What is love?

I envy the rabbit that frolicks in the meadow. He does not concern himself with petty notions of love. He eats, he sleeps, he plays. He does not spend nights staring into the fire questioning everything about his existence.

Love is so easily handed out, and so generously. A pony may love many different persons in their lifetime, and love them all equally. Or they might have one great love. They can even give love to objects. Is the love a crafter has for the finest table he ever made any less than the love he feels for his wife?

I ask myself these questions over and over. I cannot pretend to be able to fathom the inner workings of a ponies mind. They are alien to me, like a moth trying to fathom the mind of a butterfly. And yet, they are content to label all of their connections with love.

As I lay in the embrace of this strange pony, I asked myself ‘What is love?’. I feel the warmth of his hooves around me, the somehow reassuring sensation of his weight against my assumed form. I can feel the soft exhales of his breathing tickle the fur at the back of my neck. And I am content.

Is this love, or obsession? I do not wish to leave his side for anything. Is it because my mind has drawn a connection between myself and this pony? Am I indoctrinated to his presence as if a dog who hears a whistle every time he is fed expecting food when he hears the whistle? Or is it love?

Ever since he found he, he was kind. He gave me shelter, at great risk to himself. He didn’t care that I was a changeling. He cast aside the misconceptions of his species and gave me a chance to prove myself to him.

Are the feelings I have for him an obsession? Are they just my mind grasping at the one stable element of my present life and refusing to let go?

Or are love and obsession just two different words for the same sensations?

How can a creature have no understandings of the very thing they feed upon?

Perhaps a pony, in my position, would call it love. But I cannot call it love without knowing what love is. Love is, as I understand, a word given to any sensation of attachment that a pony cannot explain immediately. It is like faith. It is intangible, but its effects on the psyche and those around us are noticeable. A pony would jump off a cliff for love or faith.

Maybe love is just a word for any strong attachment? Surely I am attached to his pony. Would I leap from a cliff for him? No. That would be foolish. If he had promised that he would be at the bottom to catch me, though...

Or maybe love is simple? Maybe love is just...love. A completely separate emotion to obsession and need. Does a lion love a gazelle? Does the anteater love the ants he feasts upon?

And if not...how can I love a pony? How can I love the source of my sustenance, or ever know if my emotions are truly love, or merely an obsession brought about by reliance?

Does it even matter?

Love seems to be a brand applied clumsily to everything and anything. From obsessions to need.

It is a word abused over and over again until the true meaning of it is lost to lore.

But I have decided that I will allow myself this transgression.

It takes but a gentle push of my hooves to wake up the pony whose embrace I am enjoying. His eyes blink open, and he raises a brow at me curiously.

I lean in to whisper gently into his ear, ‘I love you’.

The smile that I receive in return for my simple admittance creates a warm glow inside my chest, and I bask in its radiance as I return to lazing with him.

After endless questions have chased themselves through my mind, I inevitably come back to the same conclusion:

If this warm glow I get from a simple smile is not love, then what is love?