There is a certain state of mind, or perhaps of both mind and being, during which a pony's body and his mind are not exclusively in synchronization with each other. What I mean to say is that sometimes, a pony's body will crave something, and his conscious mind will demand it, nay, beg for it, but the subconscious will refuse to allow it.
Specifically, I am referring to the condition known as insomnia, which when it strikes will oftentimes leave its victim pleading with tears in his eyes for the sweet release of sleep. The body is exhausted, and the conscious mind provides everything needed for sleep - namely, a comfortable bed, darkened curtains, perhaps some warm tea - but for whatever reason sleep does not come.
It was this state in which I found myself.
I decided to give up on attempting to sleep; I had heard that simply getting up and doing something else will lead to sleep's arrival, like a cat which will only deign to grace you with its presence if you ignore it. So, I slipped out of my warm bed and returned to my study, taking a seat in front of my typewriter.
It was there I discovered that the cruel vicissitudes of the universe hold no limits, as my exhausted mind could not bring forth any words to put on the page either. I have no idea how long I sat there, simply staring at the blank page before me. Ideas swam just out of reach, like formless shapes beep beneath the surface of the ocean, hinting at something but not telling you what.
The night outside was pitch-dark, and the only thing I could see in the window glass was my own reflection, framed by the feeble lamplight. The clock ticked mercilessly.
I had had such romantic visions of my future when I quit my job to become an author. I had fallen to the popular concept of a pony, bent double over his typewriter in the small hours of the morning, cold coffee forgotten at his side, feverishly hammering out brand-new worlds.
The reality was far less romantic. Late nights were normal, however they were not spent in the throes of creativity but in the panic of looming deadlines. Editors and publishers clamoring for me to change this and change that, their goal being the appeasement of the masses rather than the freedom of the author. And don't even get me started on writing for newspapers.
So in an attempt to give myself at least a little agency over my own creative expression, I started writing another book, one which I would attempt to publish myself rather than declare fealty to another publishing house. It would not be easy, I knew, but it would be a venture worth taking, if only for my own sanity.
Or, at least, it would be, if I could drum up any motivation to actually write the damn thing.
It was during one of these bouts of mentally feeling sorry for myself that something strange happened. The clock's ticking had been reduced to a background noise, and time itself seemed to skew slightly. When I realized something was amiss, I looked out the window to see something moving. I opened it to check, but there was nothing there besides the cool night breeze and the light of the moon, which seemed a little brighter than usual.
But when I leaned back inside and turned around, who should I see standing on my front room rug but the Mistress of the Night herself, Princess Luna!
I fumbled my words in surprise for a second before bowing. "Your Highness. I did not expect a visit from you tonight."
"No one ever does," she replied in a soft voice, laced with a hint of amusement.
"How, um...how did you get in? I didn't hear you."
"Alicorn," she said by way of explanation.
I shifted nervously, trying to think of the proper protocol for hosting a Princess; I had never done so before.
But she seemed to read my mind. "Relax, please. I assure you my visit is purely casual."
"Then...why are you here?"
"Because you have a problem."
"I have several problems," I replied sardonically before my brain could register it and stop me.
The horror was probably plain on my face, because she put a hoof up to her mouth and giggled. "Perhaps. But the problem I have come to help you solve relates to that." She pointed at my typewriter.
"My...book?" I asked. "How do you know about that?"
"I know may things. I know you're worried about finishing it, and of writing a good story that ponies will enjoy. I know you're frustrated by your lack of inspiration."
"I...yes, that's correct, Princess."
She walked over to the still-open window, where the air teased the curtains. Her dark coat almost made her blend in with the night, and the stars of her mane became indistinguishable from those in the sky.
"Come, look outside. What do you see?"
I did as she asked, but didn't see anything."
"What am I looking for?"
"Just be patient. You will see it."
Then, out of the darkness, came a light. It bobbed and fluttered, and as it came closer I realized that it was a large moth, glowing with soft silver light, like the light of the moon. It gently flew in a seemingly random path, before it changed direction and flew inside my window, right between Luna's face and mine.
"That is a moonlight moth," she explained. "I want you to catch it."
"Catch it?"
"Yes."
I did not understand, but did as she asked, attempting to grab it at it with my hooves. But despite how peaceful and lethargic it seemed in flight, every time my hooves got close to it the moth floated away. Again and again I tried, but to no avail. Eventually I managed to predict its movements and actually made contact with it, but it simply flowed out of my hooves as if it were made of smoke.
"It's impossible, Princess," I protested. "I can't catch it."
She smiled gently. "Exactly. The creative arts are as fluid and immaterial as water, and as fleeting as this moth. You cannot catch it, you cannot hold it, and you cannot lure it. You can only hope that it will come to you."
I understood the metaphor, but it did not seem helpful. "I know this already."
"Then why are you sitting in front of your typewriter for hours on end, trying to catch the moth?"
I didn't have an answer.
"When something you are truly passionate about eludes you, you only need to wait. Perhaps other thoughts or actions, in time, will lead you down unseen paths and towards inspiration. In my experience, the best ideas come when you least expect them to."
"So you want me to stop writing?"
"Not necessarily. The simplest thing would be for you to write something else. Whatever comes to mind. If you stop trying to catch the moth, you might just discover that it has come to you. See?"
She motioned to the top of my head, and I looked in the reflection in the window. Sitting, almost weightlessly, on my mane was the moth, its wings folding and unfolding slowly.
I looked back at Luna, but she was gone. I heard her voice carried in through the window on a gust of midnight air.
"Good night, and sweet dreams, my little pony."
The next thing I knew I was waking up. My head was stuck to the desk where I had laid it, and the morning sunlight was streaming in through the open window. I didn't know I'd fallen asleep; I didn't even remember laying my head down. But I remembered Luna's visit clearly, much more vividly than any dream. Had it all just been a dream?
I shook the sleep out of my brain and looked back at my typewriter. The page was still blank, but this time the whiteness was not mocking me - it was an invitation. With a smile, I put my hooves on the keys and began to type.
"There is a certain state of mind, or perhaps of both mind and being..."