Octavia walked out onto the stage where the rest of her orchestra was already waiting. She glanced out at the audience, silently awaiting the first performance of her newest musical piece. With a quick nod to her fellow musicians, she strode to the very front of the stage where her cello was already placed. Gently, she picked up the bow in her right, front hoof, and wrapped her front, left hoof around the strings at the top of the instrument. She waited just a moment, gathering her thoughts and emotions, before she placed the bow against the strings, yet still not beginning to play. That action was merely a cue. And, just as they had rehearsed, the orchestra behind her lifted their own bows to their instruments’ strings.
She took another breath, and drew the bow across the strings of her cello, sounding the first note of the music. Behind her the orchestra followed suite, beginning to play the upbeat introduction. As they did so, Octavia played a much slower part, something akin to a lullaby. Her hoof moved the bow methodically, due to how many times she had practiced. Letting herself just become a part of the music, Octavia knew that she was giving the ponies of the audience a taste of reality, whether they knew it or not.
The bird is still locked inside its cage, crying out for food, water, or even just a friend. The deep breath I took there is still poisoning my lungs, poisoning my mind, my soul. Amongst the great world of my thoughts, an old oak, made of my most cherished memories, is sheltering me even as the sun bathes its dead, frozen leaves in golden light.
In the ghost town that is my heart, I can still get a glimpse of myself as a young, innocent filly. She dreams of getting a bedtime story, of sea ponies, of giant toys. The orchestra began to play even faster, yet Octavia continued her solo melody. “This is the song of me. A song in need of a pure-heart to sing to me until I feel peace again.”
She began to speed up her own playing until it matched the speed of the orchestra’s. “And yet, all the great hearts in the world are lying still, slowly dying. When they finally give up their last beat, they will themselves lying serenely on an angel’s wing.”
As those great hearts lie still, silently suffering as they always do, they smile, putting on a brave face until the end. But when the end comes, there is nothing left for an encore, nothing left but a silent song. The song that is sung in silence as they lie still, dying, on an angel’s wing.
A midnight stroll amongst the corridors of my mind, no one at my side leads me nowhere. But it shows me new parts of my soul. “This is what I live for. I’d give up everything, even my life, to show how much I love you.”
Both the orchestra and Octavia slowed down the pace of the music just a little, signifying a change to a new section of the piece. This is my silent symphony. The symphony of my heart.
Sometimes the sky is black even during the day. Black over running water, unused pipes, rusting keys that no longer have a door. Sometimes the inside of ponies’ hearts is black like that sky. The only ones who are free are those who are lying still on an angel’s wing. “All those who were the bravest, the kindest, and who cared the most for others are lying motionless as they are slowly dying…on an angel’s wing.”
The entirety of the orchestra changed to playing something akin to the slow melody Octavia had been playing at the start of the performance. She too slowed down, but not quite as much. This was her turn to play the melody of moving notes even though she was playing at a tempo hardly faster than the main orchestra.
I see a young colt on the streets of Canterlot, a begging bowl at his hooves. He tries to smile, but I can tell how much it hurts. Nopony else takes notice. I do, but ignore him.
As I walk past a dark, forbidding alley, I see a starving dog. It lunges for me and tries to bite me. Any pride it once had in life has left it by now. All that’s left in its eyes is desperation. I wish I had my leg to spare, to give it a meal, even to just show it some kindness.
Somewhere beneath Canterlot Castle, a mother is visiting her son. They gaze at each other from separate sides of the bars and she smiles. Somehow, she’s never loved him more than she does at that moment.
I watch an obese mare walk down the street. She’s dressed up with an emerald pendant around her neck. As she passes me, I can smell her overly sweet perfume. She’s going to dinner alone, and that makes her more beautiful than any other mare alive for just this one night.
I pass by a brick wall that has a beautiful model’s face plastered upon it. It wrenches my heart to see that picture of perfection beside a violent city kill. A city that worships blood, if it benefits them.
In my dreams the first thing I’d ever heard was a story. The story of a pony who’d been all across Equestria. The grass under my hooves was softer than any grass I’d ever felt in reality. The campfire that blazed against the blackness of the night sky was the beacon of life. As we roamed the roads of Equestria, I saw wonders I’d never even dreamed could exist. But when I woke, I realized that they were only dreams. So, does that mean you can dream within dreams? Alas, a question I shall never know the answer to.
I want to travel like that. I want to follow life on its never-ending journey. I want to go where I can escape all the tragedies of reality. As I went, I would pass no pony, and I would eventually reach a world of love and simplicity. A world that would reflect my desires of what real life should be like. But yet, this can only happen in my dreams. Whenever I wake, I will remember the horrors of the waking world. And I will want nothing more than to return to my dreams.
It’s strange, how, the moments when I visit my parents’ graves are the only moments where I can experience true love. The love I feel for my family is infinite, as it always be. It was cruel for them to have been taken away from me so soon, but…that is the way of the world. For this is not my dreams; this is real.
How can anypony ‘just be themselves’ if they have yet to discover their true selves? I hate hearing ponies say that, because, in most cases, it doesn’t help anypony. All it does is make them feel as if they’re stupid for not knowing who they are. But they aren’t stupid, they’re just unsure of who they truly want to be.
Another thing I hate is when ponies say ‘I know how you feel’. That’s not true. Nopony can truly know how another feels. It’s just not possible. There’s no way that your experiences could be that closely related.
But who am I to judge anypony else no matter who they are?
I’ve watched the foals play in Canterlot’s park. Their innocence is precious; they should cherish it as long as they can. For when they finally have their eyes opened to what this world is really like, they’ll wish they were still being kept in the dark. I know this, because I felt the same way. Watching them, as carefree as they still are, is the closest I’ve ever been to the truth. I don’t think I could ever get any closer because there is no innocence purer than that of foals.
There is never a true winner in war. Just those who have lost less than others. I suppose that death would be the winner since war leads to so many lost lives. Paper is dead without words to give it a purpose. Ink is hollow without a story to tell. Words give life to much of the world, for all the world is dead when there are no stories to tell. Without their love and beauty, our existence begins to feel empty. I don’t know why; maybe it’s because we live for stories and legends. Whatever the reason, I know that the stories we tell are most valuable to those who are young.
Whenever I see empty cradles, I wonder what the reason behind their existence is. I wonder whether they were full once upon a time, or if they’re awaiting an occupant. In any case ponykind will never change. We are too set in our ways. Too used to the harmony that we think exists, when truthfully, that harmony is merely a thin sheet of glass, extremely easy to shatter. And behind that glass, is all the darkness of true reality.
The orchestra stopped playing entirely, leaving Octavia alone as she slowed down, so that she was playing slower than any other part of the piece had been. As she dragged her bow back and forth across the strings in a sorrowful melody, tears began to fall from her eyes. “I wish to be a good pony, as most do. But I am nothing compared to the harshness of reality. And there will forever be that change from G to E minor.”
She lifted her hoof, and the bow broke contact with the cello’s strings. Behind her, the entire orchestra bowed their heads in respect for what they had just heard. And yet, Octavia’s tears continued to fall, even long after the last note had stopped ringing throughout the hall.