As I dare to venture further into the depths of my own emotion, I find myself quite frightened by a simple truth which I have stumbled upon not only about this world, but about myself.
My existence has been brief, as compared to the grand scheme of the world which I have devoted such great time to study. My physical existence can be measured in years, but my consciousness seems to stand alone.
The memories I have formed, the emotions I have embraced and the knowledge I have collected in my gaps seem unaltered by the standard affliction of time which erodes the minds of most ponies. My memories stand pure and fresh as the gap they were formed.
This is a burden I alone must carry.
To say I am a burdened genius is of course grossly egotistical. Genius is artistic. Genius is the ability to use the knowledge which has been accrued by past lives and form something new, something beautiful. I simply have my memories.
But perhaps memories also carry great power.
I am of the belief that we are born a blank slate, or soul and psyche are completely moldable. Because of this I have long searched for the answer to an age of question; If we are born the same, how do we all end up so different?
I have concluded it is our memories that make us who we are.
Memories make our decisions, our biases, our beliefs. Without our memories we are merely nebulous, without a sense of identity.
But what is it when we remember everything?
Within my mind there have been few memories of great impact, as all are remembered equally. I have no bias or personality by which to sway my opinion, and this frightens me greatly. Am I truly a creature of simple logic? If so, what is there to separate me from an automaton? I ask this now with such great fervor not because I have not considered it before, but because now...
It matters.
Before her, my emotions were so dormant that I had long accepted I was a being of simple logic and my decisions were made on probability alone. Now my emotions drove to act in ways that I would never have dreamt before. They have made me behave...illogically.
Yet strangely enough, this brings me great joy. To know that there is vulnerability within my soul is simultaneously frightening and empowering. To know that I may love and hurt and be hurt reminds me that I am alive.
And I feel for the first time that which I have given outwards so frequently...
Meaning.
I feel now what the planets and stars feel when they are admired through a telescope. I feel the simple joy of being recognized myself. I question for the first time in a long while that perhaps my purpose is not merely outward, but introspective as well. I am recognized. Where I was once lifeless in a sense I have been given life anew by her. I have been given meaning by the impacts and emotions I bring to others and myself through my actions.
I break my gap and return to her.
"Twilight...thank you."
She seems caught off guard by the statement, it I find that I must remind myself that she feels only a moment has passed.
"What, for the kiss?" She asks, befuddled, "You don't really need to thank me for that..."
I chuckle, something I have not done in a very long time, before responding, "Yes, but also for what you have given me."
"Given you?" She raises an eyebrow, as if trying to recall.
"Yes. It would seem you have given me something quite invaluable."
"Oh? And what is that?"
"A reminder that I am alive, and a memory that I am glad I can never forget."
"What do you mean 'you can never forget'?"
"Twilight, you should know that I remember everything that happens to me within my gaps, every second of every one. My mind is weighed with this knowledge, and sometimes it is a curse."
"You can't forget anything?" She asks, "What is that like?"
"Difficult." I reply, "To me the passage of time seems so fast. I feel as though I must act on what I have learned, which is myriad, and not on how I feel, which is sparse. You are the first pony I have met in a long time whom I can carry on a conversation with without stepping into my gaps."
"Why?" She asks.
"When I communicate with most ponies, I do not reply based on emotion or desire, I simply follow scripts. I have memorized everything ever said to me, and every possible response, but in doing so I had forgotten that we are meant to believe what we say to others. I had long been of the belief that I was simply to say that which would get me the most amicable response. It was not lying, per se, I just...found the words and actions that made my life amongst others easiest. But with you...it's like I'm improvising. I'm making up everything as I go, and I'm constantly terrified I'm going to say the wrong thing."
Twilight giggles, which is a response I did not expect.
"Clockwork, that's not as abnormal as you seem to think. We all have our scripts. The little things we say every day without even thinking about it. But that isn't really communication, it's just manners. True communication is what we are doing now, it's all made up on the fly. Believe me when I say I have that fear too, but it's worse for me because I know that if I say the wrong thing you'll step into your gap and analyze it for...well, what seems like hours to you."
This brings me a strange mix of comfort and sadness. Sadness because I do not want her to be afraid, but comfort because it means she feels another piece of what I feel for her.
"But these conversations," she continues, "are what make memories for ponies like us. We share our emotions and our thoughts with one another. We dare to challenge and complicate our beliefs. We remember these conversations, and they add to what make us who we are..."
I smile, "Like we're just a swirling mix..."
"of feelings and memories."