//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1 
// Story: Scattered Thoughts 
// by Maileo 
//------------------------------//

Looking around, Memo realized that he was sitting in Sugarcube Corner. He didn't remember entering the store but quickly sunk back into his chair, accepting the situation. Memo somberly leaned over his notebook, laying peacefully on the table in front of him. He had read, and re-read his past notes countless times, and it had become more of a habit to look back at what he once thought rather than an actual practice. Despite a mysterious pounding headache and slightly blurred vision brought on from what he recalled to be a recent, and rather heated argument, Memo submitted to routine and opened his notebook once again. 


A Book Where I Write Down Ideas


"Real thoughtful." He mused to himself, the bold title resting in the top margin of his notebook. After a brief moment, Memo sighed and read on.

Thinking about doing woodworking, It's pretty natural for me to do something with my hooves. Also working on finding a job.

The part about working with his hooves was true enough, being an earth pony, he felt much more comfortable being grounded and doing simple, independent tasks. He could never imagine what it would be like to work in a magic powered factory like the ones in Coltiana, or the weather factory in Cloudsdale. Sure, mass production was the future, but he still preferred the personality one could put into a hoof-made piece. 

Wait a day before making any purchases. If it can't wait a day, it's most likely an impulsive buy and therefore not worth it.

Leaving sagely advise was not usually his thing, but Memo did have to enforce some strict rules on himself to carefully ration off the small bank of bits he had left.

Imagine an artist that draws streets. It'd be like the worlds first, unadulterated street artist.

Memo snorted at the concept, and continued reading.

I wanna make windows with a layer of water or salt water in them to diffuse the light as it passes through and give rooms a rippling effect.

He had actually experimented with that one once. Unfortunately the water expands when frozen and has a nasty habit of cracking the glass around it. Maybe a good idea in theory, but not very practical. 

I wish I had talent like that purple mare, I hear she's Celestia's personal student. Maybe I should write her a letter and see if she wants to go on a date? Should probably work on my penmanship before considering it.

As far as penmanship was concerned, not much had changed. Despite the name, Memo's hoof-writing hasn't improved a bit since he was a little colt. As for Twilight, she was way out of his league now. After saving his hometown of Ponyville several times, she and her friends had become celebrity. None of them, especially Rainbow Fast would be seen with a nobody like him.

Maybe one day, when he was rich and famous, he would approach them with unmatched charisma and guile. Maybe one day he would sweep that quirky, amethyst mare right off her feet. Her multicolored mane would flow gently through the air as she gasped softly at his forward actions. He would lean over her and look deep into her lavender eyes, as if trying to smell the hint of the flowers off of them. He would show her that he was worthy of her presence.

Maybe one day. 

After catching himself daydreaming, and blushing slightly. Memo returned his eyes, and subsequently his mind, back towards the pages in front of him. 

It'd be cool if I could get to the point where I'd be able to make 10-minute accurate sketches of things, Especially portraits.

Another fantasy come and gone. It didn't take Memo long to realize that he had little to no artistic talent, so he moved on to other things. 

I think it's stupid that I have to work so hard to get a job I won't enjoy and buy things that I won't even have the time or energy to fully enjoy.

Work was always a touchy subject for Memo. The few jobs he did have were very physically and mentally draining and payed very little. Being low on bits however, he forced himself to work tirelessly day after day to just make ends meet. No wonder he felt so strongly about it back then.

After stressful events, I like to do low stress activities to help relax. Slowly but surely, those low stress activities start to bring up stressful memories, and are no longer low stress. I'm afraid that things I love doing - passions of mine - will become too stressful and overbearing for me to do in a practical manner.

And with that, Memo's headache came back in full force. He recalled the recent argument he had completely forgotten, or perhaps completely ignored as the pain in his head refused to subside. 

It was about his Father, it was always about his Father. The huge, toxic ink stain on an otherwise orderly page. Slowly spreading to completely obliterate written letters. Letters arranged precariously into words. Words arranged into profound sentences used to portray emotion and opinions. Everything Memo was, his entire being, was being corrupted by that stain.

Feeling a wave of inspiration, Memo turned to a blank page in his notebook, and began to write.