This letter is addressed to the larger population of Ponyville, those who have friends, family, and neighbors on the front lines of this war. These words are here to bring you all news.
Hah, who am I kidding. No one will read this. A wayward letter lost on the wind. I’m not important, never will be. I’m going to die in this war with fire in my bones and pain in my heart and I’ll be lost to history, nothing more than a skeleton in the black soot of the chimneys of war.
I just… wanted to pretend I guess. That someone might know I’m alive, even if no one cares. Everyone else is writing to loved ones, but I have no one of my own to write to. I regret it now, secluding myself, hiding myself away. I know, of course, that no mare would take me and no starlet would ever call me friend, but maybe if I’d just gone to one of Pinkie’s parties, let her know I still existed… maybe there would be someone I could send this to. Even if it was just her, even if it was just as acquaintances. At least there would be someone who cared.
I don’t know what to write; I don’t know if I should write. I don’t think I’ll ever send this out. Just killing war until the time starts. No wait, other way around huh? ‘Course, all I’m really killing out here is myself. I don’t know what went through their minds when they decided to draft the overweight writer onto the field of battle.
Maybe I just had rotten luck, I don’t know. I quickly became enemies with my sergeant during what some call ‘practice’ and what the practical call ‘getting measured for a casket’, guess where that landed me? Front lines. If I’m not dead within two hours of the fighting starting it’ll be a god damned miracle.
Oh, what the hell. If I’m dying, then I guess I should just write my deepest, most embarrassing secrets on this parchment. Let’s start with when I was seven years old. I had dreams I wasn’t a pony. Not sure what I was, but I wasn’t a pony. And it made so much sense to my seven year old mind, after all. I wasn’t like everyone else, was I? It made perfect sense; all the pieces fit together. I pretended that was real for a decade, keeping it quiet of course.
That was the best decade of my life.
But I realized that I was a pony. I had to be a pony. It was like learning there’s no magical gift giver on Hearth’s Warming, but so much worse. The amount of self loathing I had that day… you can’t even imagine…
And now I’m in a war, fighting for a nameless throne who’s done no good for me. Funny how life works out.
Oh well. At least I’ll have died for something.
I don’t know why I’m still writing, but I’m not sure I want to stop. If I stop, I go to bed. If I go to bed, time slips through my fingers like greased butter. At least I can pretend I have a hold on the spinning hands of life while I'm here, awake, persistent.
I don’t want to die.
Please, please please please please.
Gods… I’m crying now… The paper’s all stained…
Guess this is bound for the trash after all, I needed to sleep anyway.