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// clinging to life 
// Story: The Art of Falling Apart 
// by Monochromatic 
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people pleaser
variants or less commonly people-pleaser |ˈpē-pəl-ˈplē-zər

a person who has an emotional need to please others often at the expense of his or her own needs or desires






Dear friend. 

I would like to tell you a story of a pony named Rarity. 

My name is not important, nor is my identity, but as the one telling the story, I can't pretend my influence won't be present. I will make observations here and there, and perhaps wax poetic at times, but my goal here is to present a story for no other reason than to do as much. 

As someone once said to me, a painting does not hang on a wall because it has use. It hangs there because it deserves to exist, nothing more and nothing less. 

And this painting starts with Carousel Boutique. 

Carousel Boutique had been closed for months, the lights kept on solely thanks to the money brought about by old designs still sold in other locations, far away from where their miserable creator could see them. 



Once upon a time at a party, somepony asked Rarity who she was. 

“A designer,” she’d said with a winning, lively smile. “An artiste!”  

The pony smiled politely. “I asked who you are, not what you are.” 

Rarity laughed, embarrassed. “Oh, goodness! Do forgive me, I’m just very proud of my talent.” And she was, which is why it came first, and only then did she say, “I’m Rarity. Pleasure to meet you.” 


xxx


She loved clothes. She loved how they worked and what they said, the language they conveyed. An outfit, she believed, could say a thousand words in a single glance, which is why she made sure to weave stories into every garment she made. 

It helped her be who she wanted to be. And it helped others, too. That’s what she loved the most, and in fact why she loved sharing her designs. For as long as she lived, she would never forget her very first client when she was just starting out, unknown and inexperienced but earnest and heartfelt. 

She would never, until her dying day, forget the tears sparkling in the mare’s eyes as she looked at herself in the mirror, in an outfit Rarity had made, and said, “I look beautiful.” Seeing herself for the first time not as the ugly mare she tearfully told Rarity she thought she was, with uneven eyes, and scars from accidents, and a coat the color of dirt, but as the stunning mare she actually was and would always be. 

It was in that moment Rarity’s identity became that of a designer. It was then she knew her purpose. Her use. The reason she existed was to use clothes as a way to share herself with others and help them see themselves as they should. Someone worthy of the world entire. 

This was her use. 

She was a designer. 



So as she stepped into her workroom, the fabrics collecting dust and the sewing machine stashed in the corner and half-finished designs chucked into an overflowing trashcan, she felt her already hollow heart somehow crumble further, still in denial over one simple fact: 

She wasn’t a designer anymore. 

And if she wasn’t a designer, then she had no use to anypony. 

And if she had no use to anypony, she was worthless.

And if she was worthless, she was better off dead. 



“Rarity,” Twilight asked, her voice stern, and cold, and angry, and upset, and desperate. She stamped her hoof on the floor. “Please! What are you doing?! What are you saying?! Do you want to be miserable?” 

Rarity, tears in her eyes, heart bleeding out, stepped back. Angry. Afraid. Upset. Hateful. Towards Twilight, and everypony, and most importantly herself. 

She had a choice to make now. It is said a possibility stays nothing but a possibility unless spoken into truth, and this was that moment for Rarity. 

Whatever she said next… it would set in stone who she was. 



But we should start from the beginning, should we not?