Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

XXXVI

But another set of colors find another canvas, equally incomplete. Though all the correct colors show, only one or two are fully represented. They are the greens and the greys. A field of calm grasses takes form, and stretches from left to right, and forward up until the mountain. Then, they fade in favor of a stony grey, which causes this painting to be her only one without a sky. It reaches up, and its grey-tan details are well-represented, despite their vagueness in reality. The field and the mountain are full in depiction.

However, those grasses in square fields, the golden grains, are nearly vacant. Their colors form at the edges of the green grasses, along with brown markings, where fence posts may have risen. White takes the place of each building in the village, though brown smudges still border the green, as if the buildings and fields have been taken, and the borders are the few remnants of the strange catastrophe. The ponies, as well, are absent, though no such outlines take their place. They have not been planned in the first place. There is only the bare earth, and the mountain’s own anti-horizon. The rest is left uncertain.

Many look to the earth for comfort. In many occasions, it happens to be the one true ground. Buildings are built on a foundation for support, but the foundation is in the ground. Even those of Canterlot find their strength in the earth. They are built into the great cantilever, which is built into the side of a mountain, which is founded upon the earth. The clouds come from oceans and lakes, which rest on the earth. Perhaps it is out of a strange expectation that the earth should always remain solid, despite the contradictions that quicksand and sinkholes may suggest.

Though soil with every step sinks a small bit, buildings somehow stand tall without sinking down in the same proportion. Though sand caves beneath a single step, it may carry the weight of an ocean. Somehow, the greater the weight, the more accepting the earth is. Perhaps it is a matter of arrogance, choosing only to hold weight that it deems worthy of its abilities, though that should hardly seem characteristic of such a steadfast and eternal force. Perhaps it is a matter of need. Surely a hoof sinking in soil is no occasion, but when buildings sink, they cause quite a riot.

Perhaps the earth supports exactly what its inhabitants cannot, or even just a bit less. It is true, the cantilever of Canterlot cannot extend forever. There is an architecturally-stated point where it should collapse, were it extended, regardless of necessity. The earth will occasionally collapse under a poorly-placed building, particularly those placed on sand or mire. Perhaps it is the earth’s own method of prompting the consideration and improvement of its inhabitants. The earth is not the greatest at breaking falls. In fact, it is usually feared for its constant efforts of trying to. The earth is not considered conducive to a softer crash landing. Something has to brake the projectile before it should land well.

So the earth is not wholly dependable, at least for its livelier inhabitants. Those encompassed in nature’s realm tend to have a luckier time with it, perhaps due to their simplicity. Trees grow on the sides of cliffs, strange forms of life are found coloring the hottest pools, and few animals ever meet the terrors of a collapsing building, at least not in their typical domain. It may be that they simply do not push their budget, or perhaps it is a matter of necessity. Those outside of nature pursue improvement, so the earth sets for them objects of struggle, resistance, or in several cases, the dangerous lack thereof. As the challengers grow, so must the challenges. Before long, there will be great columns made to lengthen Canterlot, or perhaps allow it to encircle the whole mountain, rather than protrude from one side. The greater sapience becomes, the less the earth assists it, until those unbound by nature, unbound by the earth, leave it behind. Perhaps the earth is merely a different variety of cornerstone for those that populate it.

So, she chooses to capture the earth first. As emotions weigh on her mind, she searches for her own cornerstone, apart from her lover. Something more solid, more rooted. Whether the earth will support her or challenge her is yet unclear. She has paid it a tribute, regardless. Though that it is alone on the canvas might be an untrue depiction. To be bare of its inhabitants leaves the earth with little more purpose than any other twinkle in space. Perhaps it is its support of the life aboard it that takes it so far, that makes it seem so significant.

What will happen if she is supported? Will it ease her nerves, let her bear the child in joy and peace, or merely let her feel nothing, simply clearing her mind of the emotion she finds so tumultuous? What if it were to let her sink, to fall, even? She should fall far into her emotions. Perhaps that is where she must be, in the heart of her own storms, in order to halt them. It is not a foreign thought, but it is a confounding one, a strange one each time it is visited, that the ailment should be the cure, venom the antivenom. She must fall in order to learn herself, to learn of him.

Though another way may be wished, understanding often has a single clear path, and a thousand unsure, the clear path always the most daunting. The road is difficult, nearly always unkind to those who tread it, treacherous and rocky. However, forget not that the earth stands beneath every stone, every uncertain mire, and every tripping root. She makes her decisions then, and hopes that she is not entirely removed from her solidarity, that in some way, the earth stands beneath her too.