From the private journals of Dr. H. D. Charm; written spring 1377.
I had the strangest feeling this morning that I had some kind of dream but forgot about it. As it was, I overslept quite severely, and it took me some time just to get out of bed once I was awake. It was... embarassing. I haven't slept through an alarm like that for years. It's well enough that I only had a single appointment today, because once I did get out of bed the concussion headache kicked in at what felt like full strength again and I almost flew out of the bathroom window while trying to brush the tangles out of my mane.
I don't know how I got down the stairs without rolling head-over-flank and bumping my head on every step on the way down, but when I did the colt was cleaning the kitchen. From what I could gather he dropped a hot pan while cooking and the contents of it went everywhere. I must have been so deep asleep that the noise didn't wake me up at all. What he was doing trying to rely on his magic again so quickly after yesterday's events I don't know, but once I had devoured some coffee I helped him get the oil scrubbed out of the grout.
He was terribly nervous at first. Whatever's going on in his head—frankly, at this point, I doubt I could make anything like a sensible diagnosis beyond just labeling the whole situation as some kind of magic-induced shizophrenia—I think he spent the whole morning with the two personalities he's shown starting to bleed together, and that fumbly worry of Silversheen's was showing through the whole time. His accent shifted twice before it settled on something almost but not quite like what the colt had started with. A few times while we were talking over breakfast, this time cooked by myself, he stopped like he'd forgotten the word he meant to use.
I'm will admit to myself that I'm thinking that there must be some truth to his humans. But how do the pieces come together? There must be some magic at work here, some way to explain Silversheen and the lack of a cutie mark, but I don't see what it is. If it was solely for the strange knowledge, I might suppose by now some genuine but embellished contact with another world. But this... it seems almost too absurd to think about, either some great transformation or some transfer of knowledge or memory. I've written letters to some of the specialists I know in Canterlot—and a formal complaint to the palace, for whoever thinks they can get me to break confidentiality because someone's flashed a royal seal at me.
Of the canine there has been no sight today. I encountered Rarity while shopping for groceries, and after she had finished commenting on how haggard I looked (how she can be always so immaculate, I do not understand), she mentioned that the one with the name I can't manage to spell properly left on an early train to Canterlot. It must have been only a few minutes after I finally woke up. I can only think that she realized she wouldn't get anything out of me. Once I had gotten Rarity detached from her incipient unease as regarded my appearance—I wonder if she wouldn't have tried to bodily drag me to that spa if she didn't seem to have her hooves full with something else—I took a nap and tried to get a little more awake for my appointment.
S.L. remains one of my easiest patients here, despite thinking of herself as a dog half the time. It is, after all, a very straightforward problem. She becomes increasingly functional with each session, even when she's having an episode. I doubt she will be "cured" for some time, if ever, but she has responded quite well to even the few meetings we've had so far. Soon she may even be able to go outside without a handler from the hospital to make sure she doesn't suddenly start chasing after carts.
The colt's half-day at school went well enough, by his own estimation, despite a few moments where (I will quote his words) "Silversheen almost woke up, and then hid again". We had an early dinner of Neighponese food and he was able to offer little to clarify the situation, at least with the gentle prodding I was willing to use. He was, at least, willing to talk to that group of mares again about the machine, and about the "body" he had mentioned, but when we went out into town we couldn't find a trace of them. The six of them are spending the night at the Grand Galloping Gala, according to an orange filly called Scootaloo by the colt. The library was even closed again—whoever runs that place must really be slacking.
Scootaloo has some interest in his lack of a cutie mark, something he's rather more blasé about himself, and has invited him to her friends' "cutie mark crusading" tomorrow—her term for attempting to find ones' special talent. I've given it my tentative blessing, so long as he's feeling up to it. It should make for a convenient time to try and gather those mares, given Scootaloo's professed familiarity with Rainbow Dash and the others. So long as the balance of his condition remains stable enough, he could use more social time... after all, what's the worst that could happen with a few foals?