//------------------------------// // Obsession // Story: Immersion // by Mark Britton //------------------------------// I'm sitting in a new place, journal in hand, about to write another entry when suddenly, a complete lack of passion erupts out of me. As much work as I get done, those little flecks of true joy and simple pleasure are as rare of gold in my life. It's been ruining my art, if I'm being honest. I set out trying to make a living by recreating as many works of art from my world as possible, but I'm no artist. I cannot recite every lyric from Hamilton, I cannot emulate the essence of Van Gogh on any canvas and all the stories I tell, I realize I tell them start to finish. I realize now that's the problem. I start, and then I finish, and then I move on. Back home every artist would tell you that's not how you enjoy work, it's all about the process. I guess if that was true, I would never finish. I would get better and better but I would never stop. Call me lazy, but that's asking too much of me. And so I grab all the papers on my table in bulk with both hands and I stuff them into the trash. It's lost art, it's unsatisfactory. I'm sure someone somewhere will cry that I destroyed perfectly good art, but I hate it. It's a terrible recreation of the things I've seen, it doesn't feel like an isolated piece that came from a passionate soul. When I figured out I could sell art and knowledge from my old world, I dreamed big. I could let the whole race's experience flow through me and into this new world, and I would be the filter. I would tell them the good things and warn them against the bad. They would be so lucky to have thousands of years of warnings to be aware of going forward. But then I started and... I don't know anything about being human. How much can I really tell you? I can tell you what I've heard. I've heard there are things such as god particles and strings that make up the fabric of reality, but I couldn't produce one line of math to prove it. I know how the computer works and I can draw a diagram of a CPU, but I could never get it to work. So what's the point of knowing? All my life I've been morbidly curious about everything, everything around me. If there was a system in existence, I wanted to know how it would work. Well, now I'm in a different world altogether and none of this information translates. These creatures don't need my art and they don't want it. They don't need to know the human experience because they're not human. They're colorful bags of vectors that obey highly predictable patterns. And that's where it all comes together for me. I don't need to know every detail of the world if I can understand these patterns. As far as they're concerned, I can see the future. A legitimate seer, now that would be a title to be proud of, even if the work is all too easy. So instead of churning out patents or forged art, I'll be a seer. I hear Manehattan is a bustling city full of economic opportunity, although being close to Canterlot could be even better if I could get some favor with the princesses. The Royal Seer, now that has a ring to it. Although... They say in the land of the blind, the man with one eye is king. I could do a lot if I play my cards just right. I have the power to see personal conflicts coming a mile away, how can I use that to manipulate businesses, politics, the flow of history? If I know what's happening next, then I have absolute control over the future. And it's my future. Now, if I know anything about human, it's always about more. Terminal dissatisfaction, the craving of the new and the unknown, finding those little golden flakes of security and simplicity from our past. I am from an ever-expanding warrior race, and these horses have been stagnant forever. Human will definitely will triumph over them. This dialogue in my mind, what I'm saying right now, I realize it's halfway over. But I've been thinking too long, so something must happen. What's going to happen? What do you do when the egotistical talking gets boring and you need an anchor to tie you down to earth? A new character enters, of course. Well, I sit and I wait. I wait in my chair, waiting for someone to come along. Someone sensing this dangerous desire for more who will come along to save me from myself. I breathe slowly, ridding myself of all thought. And I wait. I'm standing in a new place, only I've seen it before. It's unreal and twisted in many opposing directions. White plaster walls with those funny circular bumps all over every surface. Dark colored doors, simple box rooms. Yes, this is where I grew up, back home. Only it's different. Things are twisted to be more efficient. Going through one door and down the hall would land you at my first school. The halls would mesh and merge to become school walls and school rooms. These are memories, and I realize they are memories. I stand and I wait, and like clockwork, a blue pony walks into view through the impossible architecture. She's probing, looking around, trying to understand who I am. I stare at her, only she seems disinterested in me and more engaged in the walls. I step forward, walking past her, but she's tethered to me. Together we move through the rooms, as they melt into tile and florescent lights. We are now at a train station, someplace new I've never been. She senses this is all a construction and finally turns to acknowledge me. There is no talking through our mouths, but our minds probe one another as we're a part of the same dream. She remarks on my excellent control over my dreams, and I thank her. Her attention is captured by these shadowy figures vaguely humanlike in many colors and postures as they float around the train station. Everything is perfectly disorderly and appears to me like a faded memory. This poor creature, though, she begins to panic. She walked in expecting a reflection of the things I know and what I've seen, but it's all me. The walls, the floor, the shadowy humans, it's all me staring at her. And things start to take a sinister turn. Emotions have serious momentum this deep in the mind, and all this power I feel over this creature, it becomes apparent. There is no talking, there is no understanding. I see her face, a panicked, frozen gasp, as my eyes stab deeper and deeper into her. The world seems to collapse into darkness, she leaves in a frenzy, and I am all alone in nothing. My eyes open and I'm back in my chair. I look over and I have dozed off for about fifteen minutes. Breaking rules gets you in trouble. So, now what do I do? I know who this pony was, I know her name, her powers, her intentions. I need to act on it before the fear subsides. Fear is a perfect motivator. I reach for a separate pad and begin to write. "Dear Twilight, I believe I have had an encounter in my dreams with—" And then I tear it up. Taking a deep breath, I flip to a new page and start to write. "Dear Princess Luna, " And all of a sudden, I have nothing to say. So I stop writing. I leave the letter blank, I reach for an envelope and I tuck it away. No name, no address, but it doesn't need one. I'll stop by Twilight's tomorrow and ask Spike to send it for me. I've been living alone for maybe a month and a half now. I've only seen Twilight a handful of times. She's not interested by my forecasting of interpersonal events in Ponyville. She gave me a loan, I got a job at some restaurant nearby and I've been self sufficient since. I really like the isolation. When I'm alone, it's just me. I don't have to explain myself to anyone else or try and get them to believe me. I know what I know, and that's it. I set the envelope on top of a stack of papers next to my chair. I've hardly moved at all tonight, but it's quite alright. I feel relaxed, soothed, comfortable. All those good words that mean everything is going to be alright. And I really believe everything is going to be alright.