i

by Fillyphil

The creation of whom?

The grass, though green, glimmered a faint pink and purple in the stifled light. It swayed and fluttered in the occasional breeze, rippling waves of glimmers through the field, up and down the gentle slopes to disappear into the wall of mist that domed all around. The ripples came and went, having no destination planned, but to blindly fly from hill to hill, valley to valley, crystal obelisk to crystal obelisk. The ripples were swift, and their direction purposeful, but they only feigned their confidence. They knew only their direction and their speed, but they knew nothing of why they went where they headed. Instead, they existed to be seen and to be enjoyed, brought into being by another. So why, then, do they still flow and ripple through the grass when no one is here to watch?

The obelisks, if anything, ought to know. They stand tall and heavy, unmoved since an eternity and a quarter. They can be seen deep inside, through the translucent purple of their trunk, to their innards–faded black. They have history stowed away inside them–all that has ever happened in all universes and existences. If one looks closely, nearly against the cold crystal, the glimmers of stars and swirls of galaxies can be seen, drifting through the infinite expanse of space. All that has ever been imagined lies within these crystals. The secret of the beginning sits somewhere in the middle, but it is too dark to see.

The obelisk can be asked about when, but when asked why, it looks down from a hundred feet up, baring all its knowledge and might, and stares back obliviously. The obelisk remembers since the beginning, but it knows nothing of why it all came to be, nevertheless why just this single pocket of sparkling grass hills and jutting crystals has come to be.

Questions are left that still need to be answered. The wind does not know and the obelisks don’t either. They blow and they stand rigid even when no one sees them. The wind can’t blow on its own, it must be seen and commanded to do so. Without sight, it isn’t blowing or shimmering; it isn’t anything. It’s the conscious mind that gives purpose. The tall crystal’s name isn’t “obelisk” unless it is said to be, just as an infant carries no name after birth until given one. So who named it? Concepts and words only come into being when brought in. What distinguishes a pebble from a rock? A ruler? And what determines the ruler? A length in space? And what determines the length in space? Conscious thought. The mind must decide what is and isn’t from its single point of perspective to determine the universe, because the universe in its truest form is nothing: a blank space on a sheet of paper.

There needs to be some sort of thinking being. There is nothing but inexistence without it–nothing but potential for creation. One’s thoughts, like a pencil on a page, writes meaning into existence. Initially it is written with a faint ink, but over time, as the pencil goes over the same lines time and time again, it is made darker through unquestionable belief. See how solid the crystal is and how fluidly the grass sways. Something wants this here and believes in it strongly.

The mist would know. The mist existed before the beginning. It is the potential. It doesn’t cover the truth, it is a placeholder for it. It is the easel of the universe; the blank canvas to be painted on; the plate for existence to be served on. The mist would know why the grass sways and the wind blows and the obelisks stand. It has seen the hand of creation holding the pen. The question may have become redundant over time, but who wishes for this place to be?

But the mist cannot be reached. Each step forward the mist retreats and the world is painted in its wake, while the world behind disappears from existence. But why does it encroach and withdraw for no one? Form a dome of nothing around this particular place? Who is it that allows this, that dreams this into being? The mist can never be asked, only ever be seen and never touched.

So it is like that. An answer can never be uncovered because those who know cannot be reached, and the ones who can be reached know nothing.

The wind perhaps wishes to know why it blows. It chases the mist beyond hill after hill. It travels faster than any can chase, and even it can’t catch the mist. It disappears within, but it must not recognize it, for it goes on and on and comes back into existence to disappear again at the other end. They must not imagine this world; they are a product of it because they come and go from it as they please. The creator would never be able to escape into inexistence because they believe too much in their own inner voice.

If the obelisks gave up on running a long time ago, then instead they wait for the mist to come to them. They may believe they can outlast the mist, that the mist will give in before them and share their secrets. But they have stood an eternity for naught. The mist is what happens when something dies. Disappears. The mist is nonexistence, and nonexistence is the most patient creature of all. Yet they wait and wait, oblivious to any idea otherwise. Some are near it at the far hill, close enough to embrace the dull gray, but they act as if it weren’t. They must not see the mist, and so they must not be the creator of this world. They are an object within it, oblivious to the gray around and overhead, just like the wind: dreamt into existence by some unknown conscious. The creator would be almost too aware of the gray that surrounds them.

Miles upon miles of plain come into existence and fades behind, but who imagines this grass and this wind and these hills and these crystals? And in this particular direction at this particular speed? This destroys the rules of existence; a placeholder for conscious thought with no conscious thought? Someone, something, somewhere must be thinking of this for it to be, but who? Where is this mind; the thinker, the artist, the writer, the sculptor, the creator of this oasis in this infinite expanse of nonexistence? Who makes this their dream, this ethereal slice of paradise?

Her. The time of wonder has come to an end; a creator has been found.
The mist retreats to reveal a small filly, the mind that creates, brings purpose, and shoves this odd world into existence. She can be asked, and she’ll tell why, because she has a mind that contains reasons for everything that would be the laws of her universe. No older than a young adult, with the purple coat of the infinitely knowledgeable Obelisks, the inexhaustible spirit of the winds, and the sparkle of the grass on her flank. She holds the pen to this book.

She shakes her head to some unseen speaker, pointing with certainty ahead of her to the center of the tiny universe where the mist is of equal distance from all sides. It is unknown why she does this. If it were something she would want to wish into being, she could do it. Perhaps she purposefully points to nothing, for there is no boundaries to what she could imagine if she–

She shakes her head still and points to the center with insistence. What is it she points at? Not the obelisks or the wind, nor the grass or even the mist. She points to absolutely nothing, for no apparent reason other than to point there.

And she has every right to. Reasoning isn’t always needed by those who create it. Logic doesn’t punctuate existence so much as the lack of it. The world doesn’t ask why have an insignificant patch of air pointed at, it just does because it has been demanded by–

The filly had made her way to the center of the mist she had pointed towards and candidly grabs a disembodied hoof ahead of her to bend it at the elbow towards the leg’s origin. A tingling sensation bursts into the world, shooting between crystals and standing each blade of grass on end, spurting electricity off into the air. And yet still she points to nothing with the disembodied hoof into the center of the oasis.

The filly laughs, sweet and good natured, and speaks a simple, one syllable, three letter word. The wind grows warm, and the grass becomes calm and the obelisks seemingly smile. An entirely new object came into existence, less physically tangible than the rest, but beared a far greater impact onto the young world.

Perhaps, maybe–just maybe–there could be a small chance in this ever possible universe with this amiable and charming young mare, that there may be such a preposterous claim that could be said such as “i”.

Is there such a thing as “i”? Would it be an incredulous idea that maybe it is this “i”, “myself”, “me” who is to blame for this spotlight of thought in the endless expanse of emptiness and numbness? But it couldn’t be. There is just no possibility. The filly must be mistaken; there is no such thing as “i”.

She nods excitedly and jabs ahead with her hoof once more, pointing towards… Has “i” always stood in the middle of this world? How long has “i” been here? What came before “i”? Had “i” ever existed before, or has “i” wished itself into being?

No, she has most certainly confused this “i” with someone else. Perhaps, just maybe there may be such a thing as “i”, but to insinuate that this “i” has the ability for creation is absurd. Any other could create a far more real existence than what “i” could ever hope to imagine with one’s own mind–one only just realised. Please, who is it that is the creator of this pocket of existence?

The filly giggles and nuzzles the limb she still held. A new sense other than sight enters the world. It is soft and warm. But as this new sensation is analyzed, she breaks away and begins to prance in a circle. She stops and signals for…me to follow her. As she is approached, the world beyond her grows and she trots towards the direction with “i” in tow.

It is apparent now that this “i” exists at a height twice that of the filly, and can keep up the pace with less than half the strides. Is she just a figment of the true creator too? A creature instilled with knowledge and friendliness to accompany whomever created this world, perhaps? But no, it must be her doing. There is no other but her.

But the world doesn’t reveal for her, only for... Why does she form this universe around this perspective? She couldn’t possibly be insinuating that an “i” is capable of creating. She deserves the powers of creation more than whatever this husk of a perspective is. She contains the will and vitality necessary to create a beautiful and complexly purposeful world. The purple filly turns her head to roll her eyes with a smile and she nudges her head forward.

Far ahead, the mist slowly retreats to reveal structures. They prove to be indistinct and vague, but as they grow nearer, it is obvious that they are buildings of crystal, many of them. They stand angular several feet high, gleaming hues of purple, blue, pink and everything in between. Each several meters gained spawns even more structures, each taller and grander than the last. Domes, spires, arches, balconies, flying buttresses; they dot the buildings with a rough sort of beauty, being fairly simple but heartfelt attempts with incredible meaningfulness.

Then there is the tower. It is magnificent, in both beauty and sheer scale, standing hundreds of meters in the distance on four great crystal legs with dark streaks of blue running up the light-blue sides that tapered into towers and spires until it reached the tallest central tower. It takes one’s breath away that something so wonderfully massive could exist.

The first outlying street leading between the buildings comes near, the road a perfect sheet of crystal all the way back into the mist, with lamps alongside it carved from single crystals–no two looking the same. And yet another new sense, this time in the form an invisible sharp snap as the road is walked over. Not just one set, but two sets of hooves make contact with the smooth surface and produce the noise. Yes, it would be called “noise” but it is mostly absent here. The wind running to and fro made a quiet whipping in the air, but nothing else murmured. The purple filly occasionally glanced back, grinning with excitement at what must of been my reaction. My face.

Who is–am I? And why has this question of who I am only arisen now after an eternity of floating in nothingness before? It was–I never saw myself as myself. I never even recognized this internal voice as my own. I only spoke what I observed, and never questioned my position of half-existence. How long has it been? Had I always existed as a voice, or was there a time when there wasn’t even that? My past extended indefinitely to my knowledge.

An eternity of questions built up, but only one stuck out. Why did this young mare make this city of crystal for... me?

She shook her head with a hoof pointing to herself, then pointed it towards the one she adored to point at with a nod.

I made this? But how? I had no prior knowledge of such a thing to imagine it. I is just–am just… something that happens to be. All of this is new to… me, the grass, the obelisks, the wind, the air, this crystal kingdom, the… sun.

An orb of fire pierced through the mist, structuring the land as far as the eye could see. It brought meaning in mass, revealing the miles of crystal plain “i” had crossed in its search for truth. Brilliance is a word most definitely, either just brought into existence and into my memory at the moment or being as old as I; either way, it described what was seen to scale with the world that came into being around me.

But then where did she come from? I turn to the mare to see her sticking her hoof at “i” still.

No, no it can’t be. That will not be accepted above all the things unlikely. You are too wonderfully quaint and content, too happily young, far too deserving of your own conscious to give purpose and to mold the universe into being–far more qualified than “i”.

She smiled gratefully but this time she didn’t point towards “i” nor shake her head. Instead she pointed to the blue crystal wall of a building nearby.
Looking over to the wall, a flat and shiny surface, the eyes of someone unrecognizable bore into mine with intense curiosity. She crested a grand mane and tail that each extended beyond her body and flowed perpetually in stripes of purple and turquoise and pink and cyan with the etherealness and endlessness of the mist without the drab grey. I approach her, tantalized by her beauty and she comes to meet in the middle. Her coat shines white as light without imperfection, a horn jutting to a point from above her brow, and wings tucked away at her sides. The mare stands tall and powerful like a queen, no, a goddess, with a tattoo of the sun on her haunches.

This is the mare who is responsible. She is the one who could create all this, with all her wisdom and virtue–her, not “i”. It is she that brought light to this uncertainty in the mist. She brought this world into being in an instant with a simple whim of wishing for it. She created this kingdom of crystal. She is why the wind blows, and the obelisks stand, and the grass shimmers, and why it is not all replaced by an infinite, grey mist.

Of course I am not the creator. The filly despite all her spirit and guidance this creature gave her, is ignorant of the fact that I couldn’t be the creator. I am a thinker and dreamer, it will be admitted, but my only recently found ability pales in comparison to the skill this goddess possesses in creating this wonderful world. I am just a visitor in the story that she dreams. And unfortunately it appears the filly is just a character of it.

I turn to the purple filly to gauge her reaction, but the goddess mimics me suddenly and I turn back and she stares back into my eyes with an impregnable expression. I inch my head closer and she follows suit, we blink in unison, our nostrils flare together as we breath. I reach out and she reaches out as well and my hoof touches against a hard surface.

I don’t understand. I turn to the purple filly again and she is beaming with more excitement and joy than ever before.

How she exists confuses me, but I must assume: that mare created this.
The filly nodded, enthused.

Finally, the search is over. All that is here agrees that it is this mare who is the creator of this world, and there is no more reason for me to wonder and search and question now that there is an answer. I have been taken through a quaintly short journey. I have seen. I have heard. And I have discovered. I ought to feel content now that this mystery is solved.

But I am not. The discovery has given me no joy, no anguish, no anger, only emptiness–left behind by the questions and wonders that once laid there–throbbing and sore perhaps, but when it was there it gave meaning, if not to the world, then exclusively to myself. It seems I have tasted life after feeling nothing for so long, and now I want more. I’ve gotten glimpses of adventure and beauty and frustration and love, and I want to do it again. I want to feel more.

This feeling. It wraps around my body and soul. It’s captured me like nothing else. It’s magical.

And then the world was only ten meters in any direction. While I was preoccupied, this world has already started to come to an end. I shouldn’t of expected her to find interest in this one forever. But I hadn’t had my fill just yet! Couldn’t she give me a few more lasting breaths in this world? I want the blue skies and the crystal structures and warm sun.

There is no more crystal road beneath me, only grass. How cruel it is that some mysterious being can make and take away all the things that I could possibly consider beautiful and can bring me happiness. I don’t blame her despite of it. It is her world, I only happen to be an admirer. All I have now is the memory of that magnificent tower. Memory. I have memory.

I remember the little filly and look around myself. She is nowhere to be seen. She must of been wished back into inexistence after her brief period of life. I crumble. I am feeling, but it is pain. Why couldn’t it of been me. Why could she have not been a creator, and made me just the figment of her imagination? I want that to be more true than anything.

It is not fair, not just to me, but to the filly. She didn’t deserve this. She deserves her own world and own mind free from the bounds of the mare’s, mine, and every mind other than her own. The borders close in gradually, the mist reaching out for me.

If she can’t have her own life, then mine is beyond pointless. Take me, nothingness, and let me degrade back to half-consciousness. I will depreciate with the memory of the filly and her smile in my mind.

I don’t want to go, though. I like it here, and I like the filly and the crystals and the sky. I am a creator too, I can bring it back in a rudimentary form at least. For the first time, I feel I have purpose, and with it a glimmer of that magical substance that is impossible to describe. There is too much for me in this world to leave it.
I focus my mind. I think of the blades of grass and how they glimmered and swayed in the wind. I think of the contours of the land, how it went from flat to shapely very gradually like swells in an ocean. Are there oceans in my world? Yes, but not here: somewhere else.

I think of the grand obelisks and how their insides twinkled with the stars of the universe. Yes, there is a universe of stars too, not far away, but all around at nearly infinite distances. The obelisks stretch high and mighty, immovable and eternal. The invisible gusts have their place here too, bringing motion to the world. And there is the sky and the sun, one blue and mellow and the other bright and fiery respectively. And the mountains raise in the distance as motionless as the highest clouds in the sky. And there is the crystal kingdom most certainly with their angular crystal buildings of blue and purple with the seamless crystal road that leads to the center of the kingdom to right below the awesome crystal tower that stands above everything like a watchful guardian.

I open my eyes and there it all is. Rolling hills give way to plains with crystal jutting into the air from them, far back into the snow-tipped mountains, then up to the blue sky and sparse clouds, all way up to the sun. I follow across the sky to back behind me where the city of crystal with its crystal tower sat.
There is but one order of business left: the filly. It feels wrong to try and attempt to recreate her, but her time was too soon. I must at least try. I close my eyes again and imagine her before me sitting on the crystal road with her kind and sympathizing smile.

I open my eyes and see her visage flash briefly, but where she should be remains blank. I close my eyes and think harder. Purple, violet, sparkle, unicorn.

I open my eyes and she is not here. Again closed. Beauty, intelligence, sincerity, purpose, friend. These words may have meant nothing before I decided what they meant, but they seem to be exactly what this pony was.

I open my eyes to nothing.

No, please no. Take my entire world away if it means she can return; It is all so pointless without someone to experience it with. Maybe before when I didn’t know what this company brought me, could I survive, but it is too late for that. I have tasted ambrosia and now I can’t imagine never having at least another sip. She understood me even when I didn’t know there was a ‘me’. But what is there now without her to give me a reason to exist: a purpose.

Wetness on my cheeks. These are tears, I observe, or have maybe just made up. Whatever it is, it is appropriate. They trickle down into my mouth and I taste for the very first time. The rest fall somewhere below. I know our time together was short, however time can be measured here, but I feel as though a small part of me has crumbled into dust.

There, right there, is the point, or my point at the very least: to love and be understood. But this understanding is an empty victory now that I’ve lost the possibility for this. I should have listened to her and believed harder. This is my fault.

I sit and stare into the infinite blue sky. I wish it to be extensive and forever, and so it must be. There is infiniteness beyond the sky. There are entire worlds separated by incredible distances, bathed in the light of recognition. Perhaps it is good she can’t be imagined. Maybe she lied and she really was her own individual thought into existence only by herself. This would mean she is there somewhere. The entire inexistence that is outside of this world shall be bathed in light. I will know everything the light touches.

I’ll find her again, that elusive purple mare, even if she is in the furthest, most faintly lit reaches of space. That is a purpose to live for.

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Her eyes opened gently, freeing a tear to meander down her cheek and stain her white, laced pillow a dark gray. She lifted her head up, holding back reprieve till she was sure every wall was solid and definite. After finding no inconsistency, she closed her eyes and eased the uneasiness in her stomach.

She never welcomed that dream whenever she had it, but part of her had always hoped she had it every now and then, just so she wouldn’t forget her past. It was uncertain whether a dream can be trusted to retain the truth for so long, but Celestia was almost certain it retained the idea. She had nearly forgotten her past a long time ago before the dreams began to occur–a little less than a thousand years ago. It has been so long since the beginning that it all seems like a blur, but then again, to her knowledge it existed as a blur.

Regardless of any of that, though, It was that one unicorn that stuck out to Celestia. She could of course recognize her as Twilight, but it was Luna who appeared in the dreams when they began, and it was indeed her that she remembered way back when time didn’t exist. She wondered if it were a psychological phenomenon that caused these dreams, as it would be for any other pony. Her separation from Luna had scarred her, so now her intrigue and worry for her student now absorbs her. But she was no ordinary pony with ordinary dreams, and she knew that when she found Twilight applying for her academy when she was just a filly, a full decade after she was taking Luna’s place in her dreams.

She would assume nothing drastic, for she learned from her existence that assumptions lead nowhere. The most sensible thing to assume would be that she brought Twilight into existence subconsciously, as she accidently did from time to time of other things. It would be ridiculous–absolutely preposterous to assume that Twilight came into existence on her own the way she herself did.

But of course Celestia hoped she did. Not even her sister was an individual of her own. She never forgot since the beginning of her time her goal to find another creator. Even when surrounded by her terrestrial creations, she felt incredibly alone.

She tossed away these thoughts and feelings in a sudden huff and stood. She settled that she would write Twilight and ask her about her day. The day, after all, wasn’t over just yet. The afternoon musk was humid and warm.

Comments

[Cloud Hop]

That was difficult to follow, although being a dream of a time before time existed, that would be expected. The ending is what makes everything interesting, with the idea that Celestia is a creator searching for another, and bringing into question exactly how everything came to be in a sort of ontological paradox.