Dearest Family,
In the event that you are reading this, I will have passed away. There is no easy way for me to put this into words; you should know, of all ponies, how hard it is for me to express myself, and one of my biggest regrets is that I could not tell you enough how much I truly love you all.
In fact, that is the subject of this letter - of regrets, and of love. For, you see, I have been keeping a secret from you - yes, even you, dearest Sue - oh, was it for not solely for your sake! - and while it pains me that the only time I should reveal it was after my death, it still needs to be said, for if a pony cannot let go of his worries on his deathbed, then when else?
Sue, you know how we met in the small town of Upper Hillings in 645 AB. You were the second daughter of Miner Job, whose stone quarry kept that poor, barren town alive, and I was the stranger passing through, a nopony dressed in a black cloak. You know how we met each other in the tavern; how I was drunk, and you were drunk, and we carried each other home, and how we fell in love at first sight - and how, after the headaches had subsided, and the alcohol receded, you were no less beautiful in my eyes, and I in yours - how we simply knew, in our foolish, yet wise youth, that we were destined for each other. You know how, for the sake of obtaining your father's approval, and then later for the sake of keeping the family business alive, I entered the quarry business, and thrived in it; how we went on to have three beautiful, beautiful children, whom I could not love more dearly, how we raised them on the rock farm that had been passed down from your great-grandfather.
But what you did not know was what I gave up in order to be with you.
Do you remember those years? You were in Upper Hillings, but even there, surely you must have heard of rock - the screech of the devil, they called it, defying against all that the Canterlot orchestras and chamber musicians stood for. Dearest daughters, perhaps you might have heard of it, even though it was never played in our home. What I want to say is that rock was the musical movement of that time, and I... I was riding at the crest of its waves.
Today, the name of Crying Lode is but a whisper in the wind. But it was once my stage name, and with it, I ruled the world.
Oh, dearest Sue, how I longed to tell you of the world I lived in, the day we met! The concerts in cobbled alleys, walls knocked down to make room for the thousands of ponies clamouring about! The cheering, the wild power that we held over them with the beat of the drum and the thrum of the guitar! The lights, the smoke, the drink, the glory! Dearest children, your father, Clyde Pie, was Crying Lode, once hailed "prince of rock" by adulating fans. Your father, stern and stubborn, on stage, on the verge of being worshipped. Can you imagine it?
It was my dream to spread rock across Equestria, to snub out those elitist unicorns that played their monopoly over music - it was my dream, and I was living it. But one day, I woke up with a pang in my stomach, and I was told that my liver was paying the price of my lifestyle at long last. I was sent to the countryside to recuperate. And there, I met you, dearest Sue.
Your father was an austere pony, who had chiselled his livelihood out of stubborn stone and boulder; he would not have accepted my wild ways. I knew this the moment we exchanged looks. If I had revealed myself to be the infamous Crying Lode, I would have been stoned on the spot, much less state my intent to take you as my wife. Thinking back, though, while he was the first motivation for my secrecy, he was not the main one. No, Sue... my main motivation, I realize, was you.
It was the first time, in a long time, that somepony was willing to be by my side because I was me, not because I was Crying Lode.
You told me when we woke up that morning that you loved me, and I told you that I loved you. That was the truth, and is, to the moment of my final breath. My fear was that you would not love Crying Lode, and I realize now that might have very well been the case, for there was nothing good in Crying Lode to love. As ironic as it sounds, I feared that the moment I showed you who I was, you would no longer love me - so I locked that side of me away. I took on the humble guise of Clyde Pie, traveller and labourer, seeking a few months' work in town before moving on. I reinforced the side of me that would keep your love, because that had become all the world to me.
After three weeks of honest work and frugal living - exercise does the body wonders, and so does a diet consisting of regular, wholesome meals not rushed by performance schedules - my bandmates were getting worried. They sought after me, and it was then that I had to make a decision.
Please, dearest family, do not misunderstand - I would not trade you for all the world. I can say this with confidence now. But that confidence was certainly lacking back then.
By then, after three weeks of establishing my mask laid bare, I had convinced myself that any attempt to reconcile Clyde and Crying Lode would utterly ruin our relationship. It would be seen as an act of betrayal, you would get hurt, you would reject me. Would you have done so? My mind certainly told me as much, but perhaps, perhaps, if I had tried... but perhaps, then, my fears would come true and we would be very much apart. If that was the case, then why the struggle? Why not do away with Crying Lode, once and for all, to pursue wholeheartedly a life of love?
You see, rock inspires and entices. It struck the hearts of many, because it offered much - fame and fortune, mostly. I was fortunate to be able to live my dream as a rock musician. Not every pony was as lucky. I had been granted opportunities, but I had to work hard as well. I had to put up with sleepless nights, slowly defeaning ears, ostracism by society's upper crust, disownment by my own family, and an image which demanded a lifestyle that thrashed one to the edge, all the time... I had paid a considerably heavy price for the sake of my dream.
Yet, I sold that dream, so that I could be with you.
Ponies these days are no less naive dreamers than we were. "I would do anything, to be able to be so and so" is flung around as casually as if one were ordering teacakes. Many do not know the price of a dream. Few get the chance to purchase one; even fewer attempt to sell. But I was one of those, because I had found something worth buying.
All these years, I kept this a secret from you. At first I was worried. Then I told myself that it was not worth mentioning, because life as it was had enough troubles on its own. Then I told myself that the past was not something to dwell on, what with a family on its way. On reflection, perhaps it was all just an excuse to hide my true reason: I did not want to rock the boat, not when things were going good, because I knew how fragile dreams are. And I was worried that, perhaps, in the grand scheme of reality, selling my dream of spreading rock would not be enough to buy my dream of being with you. For, dearest Sue (I am well aware of how cheesy this sounds, but I do not lie), the dream of a life with you is priceless.
Oh, it was not easy. You and I have both had our share of challenges to face, least of all in winning over your father's heart. As difficult as those moments were, though, when I think on them, all I can see is sweetness, because we faced them together. It's funny how, even though I have been with you for so long, every day spent with you by my side is that much more precious. Possibly it is because I have not many days left - or, to be accurate to the present, have no more.
I suppose, ultimately, this letter is merely a confession I was too timid to give to your face. I suppose you think that I do not - did not - trust you, after all these years. As much as it pains me to say, there is a possibility that that might be the case. However, and I cannot tire of saying this, be sure that I love you - even if it is not a trusting love, it is a desperate love, a void that only you can fill. I love you, Sue, as much as the day we first met and even more.
If you wish, you can make a visit to Canterlot, or Manehatten, and browse their music stores for the final traces of my past life. Ask the clerk for Crying Lode's music; if he does not know of it, then ask for The Pickaxes - the name of our band. Once you have listened to that, then, my final secret will have been exposed, and you will have known me completely, through and through - as you should have decades ago, if not for my cowardice. And then, if you can find it in your heart, you might forgive me for my foolishness, that I might meet you in heaven, and be reunited with you for eternity. For, as greedy as it may be, a lifetime with you feels all too short.
Clyde Pie a.k.a. Crying Lode