Log, Entry 12:
I believe I understand.
Lyra is not a pony.
It would be too simple if she were one of us. Certainly, then, the energy I feel emanating from her would not be there. But she must not be a pony. Because, in yesterday’s incident, any pony would have noticed my slip-up, and my disguise would have been ruined. But Lyra said nothing.
She is my objective. I think she is special.
I do not know what this means yet. Obviously, in my attempts to study her, I have not gone far enough. She has seemed peculiar from the start; unlike the other ponies I observed in order to build my now almost-finished complement of behavioural habits, Lyra does things differently. She bounds and jumps when other ponies walk. She grins frighteningly when other ponies smile or nod. She sits on her hind legs only, instead of curling up as even we do when gathered in groups.
She is something. I do not know what.
I will find out. I believe now that this is my purpose.
It’s strange. Amongst the circumstances that have brought me here, divorced even from the safety of the hive, or certainty in my own mind, I feel there was once a comfort here. The body I am taking—using, inhabiting, whatever the word—it was once close with Lyra, and she with it. I feel that the tenderness that exists therein might be something akin to the very nature of pony composition, both in this specific instance, and in larger examples elsewhere. It’s something that I feel seeping into my brain, even though I have no part in it. When Lyra smiles at me, my body smiles back at her. I am not sure I understand why.
If I was prompted into my mistake with her the other day, I am thankful. If this is not a sign, I do not know what is.
I hope I will understand soon, and be allowed to go home.