With my dark shades, my "quiet" disposition, and my skills as a House DJ, it's easy for many ponies to think of me as a mare of the night. And while it's true that—yes—I do exemplify my talents best in the evening time, I don't really think I could be called a "night pony." After all, I enjoy seizing the moment at all times of the day.
Morning is no different.
Like right now, strolling through these country roads and side streets, with music roaring deliciously out my headphones...
The most I enjoy out of life is now. So, I suppose most ponies should be calling me a "now mare." But I doubt that'll ever happen. With my condition comes an unshakable air of mystery. And you know what? That's quite fine. I can live with it. I have lived with it, and I couldn't thank her any less for it.
And while I live in the moment... I don't always stay there. My mind wanders, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. More often than not, I find that inspiration comes out of unexpected places, like fuzzy shadows waiting for the right color of light to strike. I allow the bass beats and rolling rhythms of tracks—both original and otherwise—to illuminate the hidden patches of comprehension.
When I hear a sound—when I sense a vibration—it never shines the same part of the spectrum twice. Every morning walk, every stroll's soundtrack produces a completely different kaleidoscope, and I couldn't be more thankful for the spontaneity, the surprise, the sudden and unexpected inspiration.
I'm not so much a talented mare as I am a lucky one. It's taken me a while to grasp that. Even right now, as I trot over wet sidewalks and dewy grass blades in the early morning haze, I snatch tiny tapering bands of this blissfully bright world.
Sprinklers christen the lawns on either side of me in staccato red bursts. Wagons groan to life with brown and auburn waves, while old workstallions fight off delirium with orange yawns, preparing to deliver milk and newspapers and recycling now that dawn has finished its initial blink.
The world's green hum is briefly interrupted by amber vibrations: restaurants and cafes in the downtown district of Ponyville start their baking ovens and coffee makers. One by one, the households, hotels, and hovels of the village wake up with golden voices, mimicking the platinum ribbons issuing from the beaks of songbirds overhead.
I think I can understand why most ponies who discover that I live here find it an odd thing. After all, I was born in the city—raised there and everything. Urban life is more up to my speed. My mind is a complicated thing that's sculpted to mimic bright lights and restless souls earning bits.
But it's also a lot harder to concentrate in the city. Here, in Ponyville, a veritable farming maretropolis, I find the world has become a blank canvas. Upon these green sheets, I paint various landscapes in gold, orange, and red bands. It's all washed over in a thin veil of turquoise, with the occasional gray and black hash-marks. Then, to give it life, I slather purples and violets in between the spaces.
And the most charming thing about it all is that I don't have to lift a single paintbrush. These are all the untold siblings to sound, and simply by mimicking them at home—in my studio after a long and contemplative walk—I find that masterpieces simply lay themselves before me.
So, as I said, I'm quite lucky.
And as I see Mr. and Mrs. Cake opening up shop, smiling tiredly—but genuinely—towards me from the front entrance to Sugarcube Corner...
And as I see Derpy Hooves flying overhead with her bright-as-beacon grin...
And Filthy Rich and Big Macintosh pausing in the middle of a deep conversation to bow towards me with casual gentlecoltly mirth...
And the distant school bell ringing with sharp red salvos sung towards the warming air...
...I find myself not wanting to wake up anywhere else.
Well... nowhere that can't promise a violet pool to dive into when I come back home. That's the most important thing. Now... and forever.