I
There is a knock on my door. I don't move; I like it here, where it's safe and secure. The floor and the walls and the ceiling all stay the same, and if I move, they will leave and not be the same. Another knock. I wonder when they will realize that doesn't work on me. Not anymore.
Finally, the door slides open with a soundless scream, the hinge yelling and complaining, but with nopony to hear it but me. I want to help it, but I can't. Not anymore. Not after last time.
Hoofstep. Hoofstep. Hoofstep. Hoofstep. A pause. The door swings shut, and the ones outside lock it behind. I smile, remembering that I was the one who made them put a lock on it. I wonder who came to see me.
I'm curious, but not stupid: I know that if I turn and look, observe with my eyes, the floor and the walls and the ceiling will move. They can't move if I keep staring at them, so I endure the burning desire to move and look and see and instead look straight ahead.
Step, step, step. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the colours of yellow and pink. A nice colour, yellow. Soft and mellow, relaxing, calming. But pink? I don't like pink. No, pink is bad. Pink is sickly sweet and syrupy; is influenza and sickness. Badness.
More steps, and a pivot-twist that makes whoever is there—don't look!—face me. They are close, but not too close: Just the right distance away. A comfortable distance. A familiar distance. I can see—still not looking!—soft, relaxed wings and a sick curled mane. Two sad eyes look at me. They're blue and deep and crying and—
No! I looked away! How could I do this? How could I let the ideas and the colours and the feeling and the ceiling go away, never to come back! Whywhywhy!
I turn and look at this newcomer. They have ruined everything that I was striving to achieve in one fell swoop; I might as well give them attention, since they so desperately want it.
"What do you want?" I ask, my voice cracking with disuse. I don't remember the last time I spoke. My voice bounces off the walls, and comes back like a faithful boomerang, telling my ears what I said. I may have lost my ideas and creations and the walls, but at least I have my voice.
Instead of answering me, the newcomer sniffles and cries and tears roll down her two cheeks only to reunite with each other like long-lost twins at the bottom of her chin and drop to the ground, together. I watch all this and know.
"I-It's me. Fluttershy," the newcomer says. The name, calling is familiar to me. I think. Did I make that name up? It gets so hard to remember after so long without having my walls and floor and ceiling to store my ideas and feelings and thoughts and memories.
"Do I know you?" I ask impatiently. I'm impatient because I want to begin sweeping up the pieces and scraps. If they collect dust for too long, I won't be able to retrieve them and they'll be lost, forever and ever and ever. I don't want them to be lost; I want to give life unto them, breathe them, live them, pretend and play, then forget to remember to forget.
The newcomer swallows, their throat muscles constricting and loosening and constricting again. Like a snake. Oh, that's brilliant! Like a snake, slithering and worming their way up and down a tunnel—
"I don't know if you remember me," the newcomer says, "but me and my friends knew you for while. You literally popped into our lives. You were different then; you didn't have hooves, or a tail—you weren't even a pony."
A... pony? I was a pony? I glance around at myself, and notice that I have hooves and a chest that rises and falls and is covered in fur. I guess that I am a pony, then. The more you know.
"You're... sick. Problems arose, and you lost control," the voice continues.
Who did they think they were? I wasn't sick! They're the one who's sick, what with their sweet and nauseously pink mane. I'm not sick!
...
I'm not sick. Please don't tell me I'm sick. I'm not sick, right?
Right?
"I'm not sick, right?" I ask.
The newcomer looks away, with shame and pity and other things on their face. It makes me feel sad that they're feeling like this: I want to make them happy, to laugh, to gasp and be in awe, but I can't because my walls and the floor and the ceiling are gone! Gone!
I stamp a hoof in frustration, and it makes a soft clunk before the sound falls and gathers dust. Suddenly, I realize that I can make music with these hooves. I begin to tap them at regular and irregular beats. The music is sound to my ears; it bounces of the walls and comes back and bounces and comes back and then starts all over again. I like the music—I can feel it in my bones, my muscles, my sinewy tendons that run up and down and all around my body.
The music is alive. It's a sea serpent that crashes out of waves of seething foam, an eagle that folds its wings and dives through the wind, a pony that jumps and frolics and trots on a familiar path, happy to be alive and happy to see that everything else is vibrant and full of life. A pony that flutters and is shy.
The pony keeps going and going, feeding the hungry animals and enjoying life. The pony sees the place it calls home, and the other ponies that it calls friends, and it's happy and loved and wanted.
I don't see it, but the newcomer walks away with their head down and tears still streaming down their calm, yellow cheeks. I don't see the other sickly, pink pony either: I pay it no attention, because my walls and the floor and the ceiling are back, and I can start dusting off the ideas and creations that are my pride and joy.