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// Chapter 2: To answer the call 
// Story: A World of Color 
// by Hemlock conium 
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As his magic faltered, he let the quill rest back on the flat wooden surface. Tucking to the side of his most recent paper with all the gentleness of a father to his children. He felt his body tire and protest. His body attempting to cry out over the whaling in his head, so that he might rest instead of continuing his fruitless endeavor. Though he heard his body’s protest, he did not answer it. Instead he let his mind wander as his eyes drifted out to his window, so that he might see the moon lit night. His horn began to light once more with what energy he could muster and pulled aside his curtains; revealing the full canvas of the night.
It was a divine sight of heavenly bodies planted across the navel blue canvas that was space. Shooting stars, were brush strokes across the blue void. Galaxies carefully painted in place so that none may overpower the other. Then its crowning jewel, its magnum opus. The moon. It sat firmly in the center; on full display so that all may witness its majesty. It rested with the gentleness he imagined pony mothers show to their foals. Watching over them as they played. Its soft glow, a warm and protective light that guided every creature so that they may not falter. Yet most of his fellow creatures opted for sleep instead of embracing the motherly body.
He felt a brief bit of pain that so many would miss this masterpiece. A sight that could never be replicated again. Instead  they opted to retire to the slumbering world. Now there was beauty in dreams, or so he had been told, for he did not dream, but to him the world itself had no equal in raw beauty. Only pale imitations, such as his own. The realization caused an ironic chuckle to roll out his mouth as he realized the similarities he had with the sleeping creatures. The same ones he had just down played. Both of them only mimicked the beauty of the world but never fully capturing it. Now there were definitely wonderful recreations others had made for sure, some he loved almost as much as the world itself. But they were never quite the same.
   
As the last of his thoughts died off to little more than distant echoes he let his eyes drift to the streets of Canterlot itself. Following a beam of light from the moon and watching the way in which it glistened off a nearby roof. The way the light, if even for a brief moment, bent and changed. It was like falling in love again. Reaffirming the beauty he saw in the world, making it a joy once more even if it did take a toll on him. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant he got to experience this again.
This in turn caused a haggard smile to crack his muzzle. Even now, when brought to the point of tears of his own inability, the world's beauty calmed him. Telling him a story that only he could hear. Showing him colors that only he could see. Creating a moment no creature else would ever truly replicate. Had he a literal heart he was sure it would have been filled with the warmth of a thousand suns by the comforting gesture of the world, and yet. It too left him feeling miserable in its own twisted way. It was a double edged sword in truth. One that reminded him of all the reasons he loved and hated the beauty of the world. Something like this must be shared with the world, and yet he could not. So he idly sat; slumped against his chair in defeat. Hooves dragging through the sea of paper below.
As his body began to sink back down in his chair once more a dreary sigh forced its way out his throat. For he was once more reaffirmed in his task, yet still left unsure how to answer it. 
Several moments would then pass before he could muster the energy to will his aching body to comply with his commands once again. Then even longer still till he could muster up the constitution to write once more. As he began scribbling away at his paper in a rhythmic scratching pattern seconds began to turn to minutes and minutes turned into hours and then finally the golden hues of dawn began to greet the horizon. Changing the olive green tinted with the lightest dab of midnight blue fields to ones of chartreuse. 
Though it had been hours, the arrival of dawn had felt like mere seconds to the tired bug, causing a surprised yawn to creep out his mouth. He wished to continue, but his body had finally begun to win over the calls of the world. Forcing him to become immobile as anchors attached itself to his eyelids. A wave of protest built up in his mind, wishing to continue his attempts but his body would not let him. Having been thoroughly defeated, he let his body slump back down, as his eyes gazed upon what remained of the now fading night sky. So that he might too fade away for a bit like the stars; only to return and shine again. 
That is when he noticed the most peculiar thing. Ursa minor was out of place amongst the sky. Not by much, but enough for him to have noticed. The oddity caused a series of thoughts to pour in as his mind attempted to drift off. Most notably a question as to why, it was off. A concept that to him should be horrifying, the world he had come to love was wrong. Yet, his mind did not recoil in disgust

While he wished to chalk it up to simply being too tired to reason properly another thought crept into his mind. A thought deep in the back of his mind whispered out something just as peculiar as the disarray of stars. 
It was still beautiful. Wrong, but beautiful in its own way. This in turn had caused a domino effect in his mind. One thought collapsed and led to another which too would collapse until he was left with only one conclusion. 
Even in failure life was still beautiful. For it was rather by merely existing that it gained its beauty. It was in this moment, a moment of pure lucidity, that he had finally found the key in his mind to open the cell door. Though it was not the key he had expected, all the same this key allowed those thoughts to leave his mind now and grace the world. Suddenly he found new meaning in his writings he had once so angrily disregarded. They were no longer failures at imitating the beauty of the world. 


Light began to now trickle in through the now open window. Gently illuminating the writings of the words he was once unable to read in the dark. The light gently gleamed off the creamy white papers. As bits of light sparkled off the now dried ink, giving the field of pacers a look almost analogous to a diamonds. Even if it was the wrong color.
For they were now their own pieces of it, not failed copies. Their own little slices of the world, not simple recreations. Each their own unique story, not just a mere echo of another, not just words trying to convey thoughts. But the papers in of themselves were the thought. They were the beauty he saw in the world. For in their attempts whether they be good or bad well received or chided,  they were the story of trials, of brilliance, and of frustration in of themselves. That in turn was what gave them their beauty he now saw clearly. This new moment of clarity brought to him was one that he could only describe as analogous to a blind creature seeing for the first time. The feeling they must experience when they first gaze upon a brave new world of colors. This was a thought he could sleep with. With that, he drifted off to his first restful sleep in his life.