• Published 25th Jun 2019
  • 291 Views, 5 Comments

Behind The Name - Zippi



No pony, even the ones who seem to be living a dream, have it all

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Inside the Mind

Author's Note:

Before this starts I'd like to say that this story, while the experiences in it are not fully my own, has come from troubled times. I've felt to an extent and seen many of the struggles talked about throughout the story and how they can take a tole. Every one of us is different, feels different things and reacts differently to similar experiences. This story is a culmination of many experiences, some my own, many not. And for whatever reason I felt the strange urge to express it by writing this.

Regardless of where they came from, the topics discussed are very real issues among many, even those who seem to have it all.

Enjoy.



"I know I am blessed to be able to travel all around the world and perform, but I have too little left for the life of a real person behind the artist." -Avicii

A guitar pick floated in the air, slowly bringing itself down and coming to rest on top of the first string. It dragged itself down in a dazed manner, drawing out a chord. The sound reverberated in the open studio room, followed by a sudden intake of breath as the pony adjusted their seating, not realizing they had been holding it in. The guitar let out a small creek as it was adjusted alongside the pony, another breath in. The pick was brought near the strings. The pony looked down at the guitar, lost in thought. For a moment there was nothing, just a pony, a guitar and an empty studio. The pick slowly drooped and suddenly in a jerking motion, was brought up and put on the closest surface. The pony looked up and towards the wall at the opposite end of the room, their eyes were clouded and even if they were physically there, their mind wasn't.

Here I am in a studio, I've gotten what I wanted, I'm doing what I love... Right?

The figurative check marks are all there.

Why am I not content, I'm happy, I think? I should be right? But I don't feel as if my life makes sense. Maybe? I can't tell who I am.

The pony adjusted their seating again, the guitar slumping in the process. The air was getting hotter, it felt thick, sensations were heightened. It was uncomfortable.

Fuck!

The guitar made its way to a chair, leaning on it. The ponies head was in their hooves, eyes open and looking down. The waking world blurred together, the area nearby felt heavy, claustrophobic. The only thing real was the thoughts, the mental state.

It doesn't feel right, this doesn't feel right.

Shit shit shit...

Heartbeat quickened, mind was destabilized, too much at once.

The pony once again adjusted their sitting position, picking their head up and looking up towards the ceiling.

Silence.

Deep breathing.

What are the next steps, whats... wha...

Whats needed?

Racing thoughts.

Their fur felt dirty, damp, skin felt tight.

Time passed, all of it melting together, maybe it was a minute, five, ten, thirty, an hour... It didn't matter.

The pony moved, turning towards a laptop that was left nearby. It was dragged closer, the screen lighting up as the top was lifted. It cast a hazy glow across the ponies figure, creating a focal point in the dimly lit studio. A project file was opened, a button clicked. The room was filled with sound, it stopped. It started. It stopped. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. The pony lazily continued to play it then suddenly stop it, repeating the process as if it would give all the right answers. As if it would give inspiration and understanding. Eyes staring forward, towards the screen. But that wasn't their focus. Their mind was a million miles away.

Their eyes refocused, this time taking in what was on the screen.

Okay... fuck.

Come on I need to get something done, It might help clear things up.

Or maybe it wont...

The file was played again, this time the entire way through, looping itself back to the start when finished. New cluttered sounds emanated from the laptop as they sounded off and filled the room. The pony stared at the screen, their face scrunched in a look of determination and pain. Desperation was creeping in. The sound stopped and quickly the guitar that had found its way against a chair came back to the pony, lifted in a purple-ish glow. It came to rest back in the ponies lap, the guitar pick lifting away too. A chord. Another. Mimicking the key of what had been played on the file. It was sloppy, but not awful. Still the pony couldn't get their mind away from their troubles.

I...

The pony slumped.

I'm... I'm... I need... I NEED... something. Help.

Something the pony had admitted to their-self for years. It had never felt right, yet it seemed help did its best to stay away, even when the pony tried and tried to get the attention they needed.

But you have it all right? Money, fame, more than what you ever could have dreamed. So what the fuck are you missing you piece of shit?

You're that fucking pathetic that even when you've got it all, all the check marks, you're still wanting more.

Your colleagues are happy, they're content, so why aren't you?

I know! I feel like I'm fucking insane, everypony else is happy, they've got it all figured out. So. Why. AREN'T. I?

I've made changes to my schedule, I've tried all sorts of diets, I've taken vacations... but I feel like shit.

You don't deserve what you have. You're just a normal pony that somehow found their way into the spotlight.

You're not celebrity material, you're confused and lost, you can't handle this.

I NEED to handle this though, after all that's what other's seem to have an easy time doing right? So there's got to be something wrong with me If I cant do it too.

I just want to not let anypony down, I wan't to make others happy and not fail.

Time passed, the only noise being a slight hum emanating from the score of equipment that resided in the studio.

I've got an image, yet I myself don't relate to that image, but I should right? I should be what others need me and want me to be. But why do I struggle so hard trying to do something as simple as that?

Because you're not special, you were born with problems, you have problems, they will stick with you forever and you will never feel content. You've got a disease.

Fuck... Stop stop stop... STOP!

The pony scrunched up their face in a mixture of pain and denial. The room felt crushing, depressing. Their head hurt, as if it would explode any minute now.

stop...



"Hey Vinyl."

The pony looked up. The door had been opened and in it stood a figure.

"Hey..."

"Jet leaves soon, 10 hour flight remember?"

Vinyl let the guitar slump, eventually putting it down. "Yeah."

She got up and began to pack up a few things in her bag, including the laptop, a few cables, and her phone. She began to make her way towards the door, her mind still a bit lost. The pony watched her the whole time, a slight bit of worry written on their face. Vinyl stopped and looked back. She almost forgot her guitar. She made her way back and picked it up, slinging it over her back. She turned but didn't move forward, instead stopping, her eyes looking through the pony at the door.

"You good Vinyl?" The pony said as they turned to make their way down the hall.

There was no sound for a moment.

Vinyl shook her head ever so lightly, seeming to dislodge her thoughts. "Uh... Yeah, I'm good."

"Amazing." The pony smiled widely, waving a hoof over and walking away from the door, down the hall, "Now let's get going."

Vinyl followed. The hall was empty except for some placards and awards which hung on the wall. The only sounds were a low mechanical buzz and the sound of their hoofsteps, dampened by the carpet.

Why don't I feel fulfilled... satisfied. Am I just that inadequate?

The two ponies continued on towards the outside of the building.

Only one did so with purpose.

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