Apropos of the Sinners

by SpitFlame

Part IV – Chapter I – A Narrator's State of Affairs

PART IV

SIN LIETH AT THE DOOR

* * *

It seems like I am getting ahead of myself, as is my wont. Picture this, dear reader: I began with the presupposition of unlimited industriousness, but now I find myself with unlimited procrastination. A few words on this unseemly characteristic before we continue on with the story.

In spite of my failings—or even because of them—I wish to propose a somewhat undefinable yet perfectly concrete solution to our problems. That is, undefinable in the strictest and most narrow sense of the word, though sooner or later I might disagree with myself. The issue I ought to bring up is one of work.

Work. Effort. Responsibility. Pulling oneself up by the boot straps. And so on.

You see, dear reader, it is terribly tempting to place the blame on society as a consequence of our shortcomings, as these tend to invite all manner of the most downtrodden countenances. In fact, almost every novel I have ever read, in their message, was a variation of, "What is wrong with society in relation to the main character? And how can it be fixed?" If you do not have your house in perfect order, is it reasonable to criticize the world? You cannot even keep your own room clean, and yet you think you are fit to run the socio-economic climate of our nation? You are bold, much, much bolder than I am.

It is almost always with the younger ones. See, a young pony might be brave—they should even be fearless, as it were. But the one thing a young pony will fear, especially in our times, is to be seen as stupid. Don't say anything stupid, don't look stupid, don't be associated with that which is stupid. And whenever they say something intelligent, or say something that they think is intelligent, it is never said in passing, as a casual remark. A young pony, if they are reasonably intelligent, will place their intelligent remark at the center of attention, saying it with confident strides, as if mentally appending, "See? What I'm saying is intelligent."

By all means, let our progressive generation shake up the edifice which provides us with our foundations. Let them rumble and tumble our social fabric. I am not against change, not a bit. But, I tell them, that the older ponies are there to keep the essence of things intact. They will hold the pieces in place so that the shaking does not collapse the whole tower in one swoop. Our aim is that of responsibility, but we serve progress just like any other young pony. I tell you—that we are mutually necessary to each other. Those who seek change, and those who wish to maintain the status quo—they are mutually necessary to each other.

Ah, dear reader, this is all positive eloquence on my part. It is nothing to brag about. And let me not drive you away from personal responsibility. Responsibility is an almost lost virtue, though of the utmost essentiality. And yet we all know that the everyday trivialities of life are burdensome and abdicate us of this meaning.

You walk into your room or office, you see the paper work for that day, but you ignore it. Soon the sight of it becomes suffocating; you begin to grow hot around the neck and finally in the face; you begin to berate yourself for ignoring the work. And yet you go along with these unpleasant temptations. Instead of doing your work, you indulge in another activity that you know you don't need to do, and you feel terrible for doing it in the long run. You keep telling yourself, "In the next hour?" An hour has passed. "I still have time." The next day. "Next week, next week." The cycle can even lead you to a depressive state of unproductiveness. I tell you, dear reader, that procrastination is a sickness, a real, thorough sickness.

Imagine you always committed yourself to completing what you knew needed attending. Let us say that you voluntarily exposed yourself to the things you needed to overcome, so as to meet your self-defined goals; that you always and consistently did what needed to be done, all of your work, and beyond, with no delay, and that you went about doing it by your own standards—not comparing yourself to others but with your progress from the day before. If for five or ten years you stopped avoiding doing what you knew you needed to do, what would you be like? How about ten times more efficient? Or twenty times more efficient? You would respect yourself more than ever before, and one can only gain the respect of others if they respect themselves first.

What would you be like if you stopped wasting time? We do not know the limits to that. You are not everything you could be and you know it.

Surely this is a terrible thing to admit, though there is real promise in it. This is how we operate in the business world, although that alone is insufficient nowadays. Who knows now? There are too many variables to consider. Yes, these variables—they are impossibly complex in how they relate to the truth. But that, I'm afraid, is a topic for later.

So, now to business.

* * *

Two weeks after Cluster had left Ponyville, roughly speaking, Airglow got up and made her way to the main room. It was a bright morning, and the day before Maxim's birthday. Everything was already being prepared. The tables, food, champagne, balloons—it was all being set up with careful attention to detail. Maxim had come in just the day before, had went over these plans with Olva, and by the end he was very pleased with how everything was being wrapped up.

All in all, it was an exclusive birthday without many ponies attending, which was exactly what Maxim wished for. Bronze Pocket would be attending, much to Maxim's agitated concern, though it wasn't like he could prevent him without also embarrassing himself. Bronze was bringing a friend over, a poor hospitality worker by the name of Feelgreed, alongside the latter's three children. Feelgreed was the type of yes-pony who all too readily accepted whatever criticisms came his way. He loved his children very much, though his wife had passed away a year ago. He was self-satisfied, yet fiddled often and treated every conversation as an opportunity to pull off jokes, the type of pony to browbeat himself whenever given the chance, and a horrible, horrible drunkard. He lived in a cottage, and always brooched off of other ponies' festivities. He and Bronze instantly became friends.

Then there was Cold Leg, one of Maxim's friends from Manehattan, a fairly wealthy merchant. He was extraordinarily proud and held himself up with many expectations; he spoke with excessive dignity and always made a point that he gave money to charities. He dressed very fashionably. Cold Leg was going to bring two other ladies: Soft Trace, one of his distant relatives and a very elegant aristocrat; and Soft Traces's more soft-spoken friend, Bright Glint, who, as very few ponies know, harboured an intense crush on Maxim. Olva and Twinkie would be there, too. Nova would certainly not come, and Cluster was nowhere to be seen. Spender Spent and the councillor, Liquor Alexander, were also invited. Airglow was informed that she could bring one friend, any pony at all. She was still undecided on who to pick.

I will get into more details pertaining to his birthday, but instead, I will recount a brief scene with Airglow that morning. And then? Then we shall see. There are certain misadventures that day to recount.

First thing, as expected, Olva approached her.

"Airglow, my dear," said Olva, "everything is finished for Mr. Wingus, everything except the party hats. Here, take twenty bits, and go to the store. Grab a bundle—no, grab two bundles. The children will like them very much."

"I'll be back soon," said Airglow, grabbing the pouch and making her way to the front door.

On the way she saw Twinkie, half-reclined in her former chair, in which she had been wheeled around. She did not make a move to meet Airglow, but fixed her with her alert, sharp eyes. Her eyes were somewhat feverish, her face was slightly pale. Airglow was amazed at how much she had changed in the last two weeks, starting from when Cluster came to Golden Oak. Twinkie had even lost some weight. What Airglow didn't know, however, was that Twinkie had taken in Cluster's words that day (that is, the day he visited Golden Oak to pick up his book), and he made a very strong impression on her; these influences of his were evidently beginning to echo in her behaviour.

"I know you're going out," said Twinkie sharply. "Mama kept you for two hours telling you about Maxim."

"How did you know?" asked Airglow.

"I was eavesdropping. Why are you staring at me? There's nothing wrong with eavesdropping. I'm not going to say sorry."

"Are you upset about something?"

"No, no, I'm actually very happy, because I finally see the truth." She suddenly laughed.

"There's something guileless about you," said Airglow, smiling.

"Guileless? I don't know what that means, but I know that I'm not ashamed in front of you. I like you, but I can't respect anypony anymore. Everypony is trapped in dumb, normal morality. How do you know good is good, and evil is evil? No respect, no respect at all!" And she laughed again, nervously; she was talking very quickly.

"Did you sleep at all, Twinkie?"

"I want to tell you something I want. I want to marry a stallion when I'm older and he'll torment me. I don't want to be happy! There's no such thing as happiness! It's all conventional!"

"Ah, I see," observed Airglow, arching a dubious eyebrow. "So you love disorder, is that it?"

"Ah, I want disorder. I keep wanting to set fire to the library. I imagine how I'll sneak up and set fire to it when nopony is looking, it has to be when nopony is looking. Ah, I'm so foolish and so boring!"

She waved her tiny hooves in exasperation.

"It's your life," said Airglow, smiling on the sly and studying her intently.

"I want to do evil, not good!"

"Why do evil?"

"So that there wouldn't be anything left. Imagine that! You know... sometimes I think about doing awful things, because the world is too good. Good and evil are lies. I wouldn't lie to you, Airglow."

Airglow was struck most of all by her seriousness: not a shadow of laughter or playfulness was left on her face, though before gaiety and playfulness had not abandoned her even in her most "serious" moments.

"Where are you getting all this from?" asked Airglow pensively.

"It was Cluster who figured it all out. He told me. Like he said: they all say they hate what's bad, but secretly they love it."

"So you spoke with Cluster? He told you that?" Airglow looked at her in amazement. "Don't you think you're ruining yourself?"

"I want to ruin myself!" cried Twinkie, and she was back to laughing.

"Okay then..." Airglow bid her farewell and she was off. She recalled with displeasure at all those "admissions" Cluster made to her on the Summer Sun Celebration. She wasn't sure what to make of it, and worst of all, that he had broken his promise to protect their father. This still troubled Airglow to that day. The way he looked at her, the red in his eyes—she visualized it all with a shudder. Still, as long as no more blood was shed—which was the case so far—she wasn't in complete despair.

But what did Cluster tell Twinkie for her to be acting that way? And did he actually speak with her directly, or did she only listen in on something he was saying? Airglow was thinking on the way to the store.