This is the note that can be read from my countertop every day:

You.

What makes a pony exist?

Is it another’s belief in you?

Or is it simply a belief in oneself?

o----o

I awake to the alarm clock ringing, the incessant noise burrowing into my ears and dying there. I fail to press the snooze button, just as I do every day. Just as I will always do.

I pull the covers up over my head, letting the siren drown me in solitude. My lonely bed bears no partner, and by my recognition, never will. I am not saddened by it. I am not joyous about it. Ever since my beginnings, I have taught myself to show no emotion. Emotions make you weak. Emotions make you vulnerable. By no means will I classify myself as vulnerable. Instead, I am indifferent. I am stoic. If I am to look at myself in the mirror every day, then this is what I must tell myself I am. This is how I am to face myself in the world. Because the world is strange and lonely, but it is my world.

I turn over in my bed, hammering the snooze button on the clock. The worn, fragile plastic nearly shatters to pieces with the force, but it doesn’t break. It never does. Through all of this time that has progressed, the damn hunk of plastic just won’t give up and die. I’ve punched the thing with all of my might more than a few times, believe me. It never fails though. It never ever fails. Every morning, 6:00 A.M, bright and early.

My alarm starts ringing again. I groan, thoroughly peeved at its insistence. I hurl the thing at the wall, where it smacks the panel with a loud crack and loudly thumps to the floor. It doesn’t matter how often I do that, however. It will return to the nightstand when I come back home.

I rise up out of bed, groggily shaking the sleep from my eyes, or what little there is. I sit hunched over on the edge of the bed, readying myself for today’s adventure... the same one I go on every day. Every single day. It’s hard to wake up, really. The only thing that keeps me going is the smell of coffee wafting up from the kitchen downstairs, pre-brewed and pre-poured into my favorite mug. Coffee must be what heaven smells like. I get up from my bed.

The smell sends me drifting out of my room, and I float down the staircase, my hooves only just scraping along the edges of the steps. They land softly on the floorboards when I reach the bottom, and it feels cold to the touch. It's always cold. I don’t really mind it. The cold never bothers me. That inviting cup of coffee never fails to warm me up anyway, and the smell of it could make angels sing.

I am lulled into the kitchen by the wondrous aroma. My coffee is always the way I like it- black. Come to think of it, it is always the way I like it because I’ve never had it any other way. What do I care? Why should I complain? Sometimes, that coffee is the only piece of warmth I have to last me through the day. I make the most of it, as I usually make the most of what I have. It’s what you have to do in this world. It is my only piece of advice.

I pick up the mug and I bring the dark roasted liquid to my nostrils, letting its warm touch surround me, envelop me. This is the best part of the day. This is the most relaxing part of the day, right here. I pick up the daily newspaper that always presents itself next to the coffee on the countertop. There is never anything to read from it, but it just adds that extra touch to the coffee, like a simple accentuation.

There’s that letter on the countertop. I’ve erased the message several times, but it never fails to rewrite itself when I return for my coffee every morning.

I walk into my living room and sit down in my favorite chair. It is my favorite chair, for I have owned no other. Its jungle green, velvety fabric has always been the most reassuring way to start the day, and most mornings I have revisited its gentle embrace. Today is no exception. So here I am, sitting in my living room that consists of one chair, one sofa, a table, and an eerie painting of a ship at sea up on the wall. It is the usual. It is what I am used to. It is my favorite pastime. I inhale the coffee’s aroma before I take a sip.

My coffee is delicious. I lap at it, savoring every drop of its scalding hot goodness. The daily paper lays in my lap as a sort of napkin as I lazily sip my coffee, still sure not to drop any of it. Once again, there is nothing to read in that paper. I am not surprised to say the least. There isn’t really a lot of breaking news that comes out around here. Never has been, and never will be.

Before I know it, my coffee is gone. I will have to wait until tomorrow to receive my next cup. I let the warm liquid swish around in my belly, filling my gut with its insatiable presence. I am relaxed. I am in a meditative trance. I wish that this is what I had to look forward to for the rest of the day.

What do I think about while I sit in my chair? Well, lots of things, really. I’m not one for philosophy, so most of the things that manifest inside of my head are simple, imaginative thoughts, for I have no one to tell me to think otherwise. Things like-

There are approximately thirteen steps on my staircase, and I should work out more.

Ugh. These flimsy wings I have don’t feel comfortable whenever I sit in this chair...

Hm. I should pick up a good book again. I haven’t read anything since Shel Stallionsteen’s last little book of poems.

I wonder whatever happened to those old drawings I made when I was little. Those crude little crayon drawings I drew always made me smile.

Suddenly, my front door creaks open. I can hear my alarm clock begin to ring again from upstairs.

I hastily get up from my comfy chair, and I trot toward my door. I wonder what adventure awaits me today. I wonder what the day’s endeavor entails.

The vast expanse of white nothingness before me stretches as far as the eye can see.

All right, so perhaps I should start from the beginning. It has been this way for as long as I can remember. My house literally just floats in the middle of nothing. It sits on open air. There is nothing in this world except for me and my house. How is this so?

So, let me just give you the jist of it. My world looks sort of like a blank sheet of paper, something like this-

Now, I have been the only pony here my entire life. I practically raised myself. How is that even possible? I’m not sure. My early years are a blur. I don’t know how I did it, but I certainly don’t remember the assistance of any guardian figures. I don’t even know if I was ever conceived from the womb, as I have no recollection or proof of my parents existence.

I have been forever alone. You may ask, with no one to hold me, or love me, or at least interact with, how have I not had some sort of existential meltdown? How have I kept my head up?

Well, as for the first portion, I told you before that I no longer carry emotion. In my younger days, my existence bothered me. When I grew old enough to realize that only I was here, I cried. I cried because I just didn’t know what was going on. I would go through the general motions of the day, drinking the beverages given from who knows where. Eating the food offered that magically appeared on the table whenever I would turn my head. After a while, I suppose that I just became self-aware. This world wasn’t so bad, so I quickly grew out of my darker days.

As for the education, you might not like this answer. Things just... came to me. I would look at an object, and something in my mind would tell me what that object was. I’m not sure. Perhaps it isn’t even a real language I speak, but it is what I was taught... sort of... so I just continued to use it. Chair. Refrigerator. Bed. Painting. Even my name. They all just popped into my mind like a random thought you might think of while walking down the road.

When I first took the trek into the unknown (I now call it the nothing), leaving my house as a filly, I walked for what felt like miles. I trotted and trotted and trotted, but nothing ever changed. The sky, or what I was led to believe was the sky, remained its shade of brilliant white. It always reminded me of a sheet of paper, so that’s what I compare it to.

After my many miles of walking, I was overjoyed to find another house appear on the horizon... if this place, had, a horizon. My stubby filly legs raced for the house, I was fleet-footed and athletic. Whoever my parents were, they passed on good genes.

I rounded the house to the front door and burst inside with complete disregard for manners. I checked the house for anypony, anypony at all.

Upon checking a few rooms in the house, I had realized that the house was my own. My heart sank a little bit, and I just ended up eating the decadent potato soup that was provided for me that night.

About time here. There is no such thing as time. I know what the word means. I know what night and day and calendar and clock is. So I use them relative to what I am doing. When I wake up, it is the morning. When I get outside, it is the day. When I get back home, it is the night.

So, back to today, back to the present. I inhale the familiar... uh, nothing. I don’t really know how to explain that part. I smile, because keeping a positive attitude is important. One hoof is put in front of the other, and before you know it, I am walking. I trot away from my front door at a leisurely place, who knows when I will find my house again.

What a marvelous... nothing it is today. I trot away, leaving my house far behind me. It is an appropriate time to let my mind wander, as if any other time would not also be appropriate. What do I think about?

I’m not sure. I don’t know why, but my mind feels about as blank as the nothing around me. Perhaps I had already thought of everything I can think of.

“Want to go for a fly today?” I ask myself. I have to talk to myself here, it keeps me from going mad. The irony of that statement is remarkable, I know.

In any sense, I unfurl my feathery purple wings, letting the nothing flow through them, ruffling them. I am not particularly a great flyer, but it isn’t to an extent where it permanently grounds me. I usually only do it on certain occasions, because of what normally happens when I fly. Today just so happens to be a day where I could grow bored too easily.

I beat my wings and easily ascend into the nothing. I float heavenly upon it, quite literally in some sense. After I have ascended to a considerable height, I stop beating my wings. I don’t fall. There is no ground. I merely continue to carry on through space.

I do this every day. Make my daily rounds into the nothing for no particular reason. I found that, if I did not travel out here as soon as my door drifted open, my house would disappear before my eyes and I would have to trot around anyway. Upon the first time that happened, as you might imagine, I nearly died of a heart attack from the sudden shock.

Since that time, however, I sometimes sit in my chair and wait for it, as if it were my entertainment for the day. It disappears and I just sit in the nothing, staring, before I proclaim, “Cool!”

So here I am. Drifting through my world. It’s quite an astounding piece of work it is.

“Is this real life?” I chuckle. I giggle to myself, because being happy is also important.

I challenge myself to do a few barrel rolls. There isn’t really a fear of failing, I don’t necessarily even have to use my wings to do it, so long as I have the momentum to carry me. I twist and turn in the air. It most likely looks very ugly. I laugh at my pitiful attempts as I perform them for my invisible audience.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlecolts, this is your captain speaking. Welcome aboard flight 108 from nowhere to nowhere. Today, there is a gentle breeze coming out of the northwest, you may be able to feel it running through your mane because this plane has no external skeleton besides the underbelly. What an incredible flaw, the manufacturers must have been too lazy. In any sense, seat belt lights are on, so buckle up and enjoy your flight!”

I continue my venture through the nothing... and my descent into madness. I realized that I had forgotten to eat breakfast today, it was more than likely already replaced by dinner. Whoops. Oh, well, not much of a breakfast eater anyway. The coffee usually sustains me through the day. And, on this day, I keep talking to myself, keep kicking back, and I keep carrying on.

Hours pass. Hours pass by like nothing, and there is obviously a connection to be made there. Soon my house would present itself on the horizon... if there were one.

And there it is. A small speck in the distance, drawing ever closer as if it were coming to me. Perhaps it was, I suppose you can’t really know that sort of thing.

“Quick as a cat, you are William,” I say to myself. I have named my house William. In part because the house reminds me of a book I read about a butler, and the other because I like to use the expression “quick as a cat” from the same book.

As my house draws nearer, I realize that I have a problem. Now, I said before that this happens whenever I fly. That’s the only time it ever does. And here it presents itself again-

This is always an interesting predicament. Last time I missed my house, I looped under it and crashed into its back. I don’t want to do that ever again, I had to ice my shoulder for days. So, I struggle to right myself, twisting through the air like a worm on drugs. My house begins to slowly turn itself, as if it were turning on a fan blade.

I lift myself off of the ground, brushing off the dust that has accumulated on the floor since I left. It will be gone in the morning.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask, now making my way to the kitchen. I grin upon the sight of the eats before me.

I awake to the alarm clock ringing. Once again, I fail to smack it... shocking. On this morning, I sort of just push the thing off of the nightstand, letting it thunk to the floor. The smell of coffee makes its way up the stairs, and it joins me under my bedsheets. I kick my covers off and poke my head out from under them, taking in a few breaths of the coffee scent before I throw myself out of bed. I trot down the stairs today in favor of floating down them.

The coffee is, as always, burning hot, but friendly. Today, I throw my newspaper over the note that sits on the counter, as I do not wish to look at it.

I sit in my chair, sipping my coffee, thinking about the day ahead. I joke with myself-

Perhaps I should tend to the flowers in the garden. Those daisies are looking a bit sad.

Hmmm. What if my house ever forgot to turn the oven off? What would happen if my house burned down?

My front door opens, very slowly today, as if in agony. I have not yet finished my coffee. Something feels off, and I don’t want to down it before I exit. I stare at the door. Wonder what exciting adventures await me today.

I am outside, trotting into the nothing. Today, flying feels like a not so fine idea, as I almost feel under the weather. Strange... I don’t think that I’ve ever caught a cold here. Perhaps I will feel better if I just keep going.

“Those tulips are looking spectacular this year, Eddy!” I say to my imaginary friend as I pass his house. Sometimes I say hello to him, and other times I don’t. Eddy can be kind of a dick once in awhile.

I pass another invisible house on my left, this one owned by a couple of artists. Their house is painted with a various assortment of colors, and they always appear to be working on some sort of extravagant project together.

“House looks great, guys!” I try to wave in through the non-existent window panes, “Just wish you’d come out and display the paintings every once in awhile!”

I trot down the imaginary path of my invisible neighborhood. Everypony out on the street has a grin on their face, and they wave to me as I pass. I will usually give them some sort of compliment before I mosy on by. Sometimes, the compliment is the same one that I had used beforehoof, on some other day. They never seem to notice or care, so it keeps me satisfied to know that they are happy.

I trot to the end of the neighborhood, down to my imaginary hillside. There is a pony that dwells at the bottom of it which I had grown accustomed to talking to on a regular basis. I named her Sweets, and she is sort of an extension of myself, like my shadow. Sweets lives in a house much like my own, only it is a flat, not a two story cottage. I descend down the hillside, where Sweets can be seen tending to her plants.

“Hey, Sweets! How’s it goin’?” I yell to her. I do not receive a reply, but I imagine her response to be something like-

“Say, are you going to enter into the lily contest again? I’m positive you’ll win first prize,” I say to my imaginary friend. Her presence is warm and she is filled with enthusiasm.

Sweets smiles that cute smile that I’ve displayed upon her face, “Of course. Where would they be without me?”

I return her smile. I feel happier just imagining her with me, “That’s a fair question. Most likely fading away like spooky spectres, abruptly ceasing to exist.”

Sweets chuckles. Sweets chuckles an adorable little laugh that would send your heart aflutter. Suddenly, I lose my concentration, and Sweets disappears altogether.

I’m not entirely sure what happened... Sweets just chuckled, it’s what I made her do. But... I swear that I... no...

What’s the expression? Perhaps it was only the wind? I find one problem with that theory.

I look behind me, frozen in my spot. I make no sudden motions, nor any sort of sound. After a short time of hearing nothing more, I try something that I should know would not work.

I stand in my spot for what must be a few hours. Nothing happens. Nothing happens at all. I swear that I had heard it, but then again, it could have all been in my head. Sometimes, I play myself for the fool. Sometimes, my mind plays tricks on me, and how could it resist to? Yes. This was another trick... and a very believable one.

I warily begin to move my hooves forward, keeping an eye out. Not that anything could sneak up on me... but I had certainly read a book on ninjaponies.

For the next few hours, I tell myself that nothing happened. Nothing happened at all. My mind can be a wicked jester sometimes, as it is truly hard to stay sane here, and at times my head just needs to tell me to shut it off. Back to business. Back to the nothing. I trot along, no longer imagining things, only keeping to myself.

What do I think about for the next few hours? Laughter. Dammit. I have tried to get it out of my head, but it will not go away. I am growing sicker. These thoughts are cancerous, because they should not be thought of in the first place. Another’s laughter here is impossible. I am the only one who has laughed, cried, or screamed in this world. I am the only one here. So it is impossible.

But it still won’t go away. Just a small cackle, nothing more. It rests uninvited at the back of my mind, attempting to cause a reaction from me. What am I supposed to do about it? I keep it buried back there, but even things that you bury you still know about. The best I can do is show no reaction, which is what I have always prided myself on doing my entire life.

So nothing is given. I show nothing on my face. I keep walking, my noiseless hoofsteps inching farther and farther along. I can control everything that I do, absolutely everything.

But for whatever reason, I can’t control my ears from listening in on my surroundings.

More hours pass. More long, strenuous hours. I have heard nothing, and I have said nothing the whole time. I try to calm myself, and it should be an easy task, but I can’t seem to pinpoint exactly why I’m losing my nerves. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. So... why does my brain want to tell me that it did?

My house appears in the distance. I try to think about dinner, my chair, my alarm clock, even the note on the counter. I try to think about everything but laughter, which is weird, because laughter is all you can really ask for in this world. My house’s front door seems to smile at me as it draws nearer, which is the last thing that I needed.

I sigh as I step up to my front door. The door swings open for me this time, leaving me with a few hostile thoughts after not doing so the day before. Sometimes I think that my house has a mind of its own. It supplies everything for me, so that is a fair belief. However, William has never responded to my voice, only my messes.

I steer clear of the door shutting behind me, and I prance into the kitchen. The meal tonight is tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches, along with a glass of milk and a side of dessert- cherry cheesecake. Everything looks scrumptious, on any other occasion I would have sat down and devoured the meal instantly. Today, I sit down and stare at the food before me, questioning its presence, attempting to identify its origins. But I am not a philosopher. I am only here.

As is the norm, William does not respond. His chair squeaks under my weight: suddenly those stairs seem necessary to my fitness.

I awake to the alarm clock ringing. I don’t dare touch it. The accursed thing rings continuously, and today feels like a day where it will be ringing in my head for the majority of it. I toss the covers off of my body, and I proceed to stare at the ceiling like an immovable sack of rocks. What will today throw at me? The answer to that question is usually so simple.

I can smell coffee. The familiar aroma lingers in my room, and I breathe enough of it in to gather the strength to escape my bed. I roll, and I end up falling to the floor similar my alarm most mornings. The floor is cold. It doesn’t matter, the coffee will warm me up.

I stumble down the stairs and into the kitchen, where my mug of coffee can be seen steaming on the countertop, along with the newspaper that carries no news. I silently lift both of them from where they sit. I pay no attention to the note that sits on the counter as I exit the room. It must smirk deviously at my ignorance.

My chair feels less comfortable than usual today. The fabric itself is smooth and soft to the touch, but there is some sort of lump in the seat. I can’t place where it is, it is just there. I sort of fidget, trying to eradicate the nuisance, but it stays there. So I just let it be.

My coffee tastes... bitter today. Not too bad, definitely downable, but bitter nonetheless. This is a strange series of occurrences. Normally everything is perfect, even the painting up on the wall seems crooked. So what do I think about?

Now I have to tell myself to stop thinking. These devilish thoughts are going to place me in a world of hurt; I have been there, and I am not willing to go back. My sanity would take a hit. I would soon lose grip on the world, and in turn the world would grow insufferable.

My front door lazily swings open, slowly, so the groan emitted from its hinges is heard crisply. I sigh. My head falls onto my shoulder as I hold my bitter coffee and nowhere news. Moving from my spot is going to be painful, as I am not yet ready to venture into the nothing. So I shut my eyes. I close them tight. I prepare myself, or rather force myself to get ready.

I yawn as I slink out of my chair, dropping to the floorboards like dead weight. In retrospect, eating breakfast today would have been a good idea. In the very least I could have some extra energy for the day. It is too late for that now.

The nothing beckons from beyond my door. It calls for the same routine that I have completed day in and day out.

Something in the back of my mind asks of me... will it indeed be the same routine?

To Exist

by Church

Part I