• Published 26th Jul 2015
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The Things Tavi Says - shortskirtsandexplosions



Let me tell you a few things about my roommate, Octavia. After all, she saved my life.

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Dreamy Things

Author's Note:

I am asked by many ponies—or at least by ponies who are uniquely aware of my "condition"—whether or not I dream in color. The simple answer is, no, I don't. After all, most ponies don't.

Only, for me, the sudden plunge into a monochromatic worldscape is a bizarre sort of... wake-up call. The change is so jarring that—for the first two or three years—I was a virtual insomniac, because every time I started dreaming, I'd become uniquely lucid over my state of mind. Seeing that dreams are a time when a pony's mind should be recuperating, one can imagine how this would present several problems.

Eventually, I became used to the sensation. It takes several years of intense psychological conditioning to gain control of one's dreams. While most ponies would use this talent as a means of indulging in whatever lucid fantasy they could get their hooves on, for me it was simply a way in which I could... seize control and calm myself. Dreaming wasn't so important as simply sleeping, and—for the most part—I've found the whole matter to be altogether frustrating.

After all, what good is a dream—what is the joy or the artistic merit—when all it does is pale in comparison to the vividry one receives in real life?

I don't sense colors like other ponies do. Yes, I've had several doctors and physicians categorize it as "synesthesia" or "chromothesia" or several other remarkable terms. The truth of the matter is that I'm experiencing something so unique and curious that—quite frankly—modern medicine doesn't have an exact classification for it.

Years ago, my mind was opened up to a sense that very few unicorns have been blessed—or cursed—with experiencing. The rest of my neurological functions are simply attempting to... connect the dots, I suppose. It just so happens that sight and hearing are the most attuned to what my mind receives. It's like my nerves are wound tightly around a rod made up of magical leylines, and each time it vibrates with the rhythm of this waking world, my entire body—and soul—is set on fire.

So, indeed, dreams are like stale bread to me. But I'm quite fine with that. When I sleep, I occasionally twiddle my hooves, waiting through relaxing neutral dullscapes until the green hum of the world lulls me back to waking.

And once I'm back on my fetlocks again, that is when I can carve a dreamscape of my own, sharing it with everypony, giving them a slice of the chromatic-audio pie that I've been so richly served.

It's when I can take control of the colors that I feel truly empowered, and it's a far more relaxing thing than sleep. I prefer when my mind is mine to make my own magic with.

Or, on occasion, another pony's magic...

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