Of Paper and Ink
What might you say makes one a creative, a producer of arts? Of course, you need to be able to think differently than all others, but a key component of any art is paper, the canvas, where you will project your thoughts, and the ink, the tool, the way that the thoughts may be immortalized on the paper, inspire others beyond the times. Many sacrifice themselves to these two divine essences, immortalizing as much as they can to share with others. It drives many to lose sociality, to lose life, to lose time. It is a plight to those who care for the creatives, who only wish to once again be more important than the works. Many would say that it is best to find a balance between the world of mind and the world in itself. Many do, and free themselves from the trap of obsession. It is usually they who wish others would become liberated as well, find balance.
Such is the case of three residents of Colt Lake City, north of Las Pegasus. They are three pegasi siblings, one of which is suffering from such obsession, and the other two wishing for him to find balance. The two are Yellow Nova and Thunder Streak and the one is Solong Starbird.
Solong sat in his house, eating breakfast. His mental checklist was recalling daily and weekly events. Today was Wednesday, mail day. The mailbox marked the edge of his property. As the distance between him and the mailbox was shortened by his hoofsteps, he thought of his siblings above. They lived in the sky, in two of the cities many cloudhomes. They had been confused and had even laughed when he had chosen a cottage on the ground to live in. Solong liked the grounded environment more and was not nearly as much of a flyer as his other two siblings. The mailbox contained just what he had expected: the collaboration drafts from an author in Manehattan that he was working with. He would have to get to work on it immediately.
The flapping of wings alerted him to the arrival of his siblings. Right on schedule, he thought jokingly. Yellow Nova and Thunder Streak landed on his front lawn in a hearty manner. I wonder what social aspect I need to improve this time. It seemed that the only reason that they ever stopped by was to get him out of his house. They just didn't seem to understand that most of the time he couldn't, especially not today. He had work to turn out. It was not like he wasn't happy, because he was. Expression was his life. It had even been emblazoned on his side in the form of a signature, his cutie mark. Of course, Yellow Nova and Thunder Streak had both also gained their marks in artistic endeavors. Yellow Nova had a wrench and a mechanical pencil crossing over to form an X, the mark of a mechanical designer. Thunder Streak's flank was adorned with a thunderbolt with a letter T on top of it. Much like his own, it was merely a symbol of one's self and expression. This, of all things, would make one expect that they understood his business. However, they didn't.
"Hey bro! Are you busy?" Yellow Nova asked.
Solong looked down at the papers in his mouth, and Yellow Nova got the message.
"Ah. We were going to have breakfast down in the city center. You should come. Besides, you need to make some friends."
Solong dropped the letters.
"For the last time, I don't need you trying to move my social life along. Every time you do, something bad happens."
As Solong bent down to pick up the letters, Yellow Nova and Thunder Streak silently flew off, the feeling of defeat just about radiating off of them. It hurt Solong, it really did. It was moments like this that he would question his life. However, all those times, just like this one, Solong would quickly shake off the doubts and remind himself that to question his life was to destroy his stability, the stability that he had finally mustered and had longed for in his early years. In truth, he had gained stability before, many times. Each time he found it, the foundation of the stability would slowly began to deteriorate into lies and ignorance. As soon as he accepted that his stability was built on the antithetically unstable foundation, everything would collapse and he would find himself at square one. However, in this dispensation of stability, he was determined to make it last as long as possible, avoid the valley of awry emotions in which square one sat. All he had to do was shake of the doubts surrounding his stability, time after time again.
He stepped into his cottage, letting the unstable worries languish outside. As he placed the letters on the side of his desk, his head, bowed in the act of placement, was greeted by the naked paws of his Sphynx cat, Scribbles. He had purchased her many confrontations ago as a way to show his siblings that he was trying, and so that they couldn't use the excuse that he was lonely against him anymore. He recalled their excitement at going to the pet store, and after being bombarded by suggestions, he had picked up the hairless kitten and said, "This one is cute. I think I will keep her, and name her Scribbles." Oh, how vividly he had recalled their faces changing from glee one moment, to unsureness and even disgust the next. He could remember feeling their disgust and, if even for the slightest moment, questioned his decision. Immediately shaking that off, hating to be manipulated by judgement like he almost had, he purchased Scribbles and the supplies he would need to care for her. Perhaps that was another problem he had. He liked things that weren't exactly mainstream, making him hard to relate to. Come to think of it, out of all the people he had met in his lifetime, only about half a dozen of them had liked hairless cats, none of which were immediate family members. His cousin had a hairless cat, but they rarely ever got to see each other anymore. He was working hard to make a living out of his writing, and she had joined their aunt in selling oils which had medi-magical applications, becoming a busy salesmare. Funny, he thought, how she had gotten the job shortly after he and his siblings had moved back to their birthplace...
As he sat down at his desk to open the mail, Scribbles batted at his hooves, and after receiving and affectionate pat on the head and a rub behind the ears, she leapt onto the shelf above the desk and began to groom herself.
Solong opened the first of his mail. It was, indeed, the copies of his collaborative partner's draft that he had been expecting. The second was a draft he had been hired to edit, and a third and fourth revealed bills, with a fifth containing a book sales royalty check that would be used to resolve and satisfy the monetary demands in the envelopes prior.
He looked at the drafts for the collaboration, and set up his papers and inkwell to begin working. Reading the recent words established by his collaborative partner from acrost Equestria. An idea formulated on how to continue upon reading the notes at the end that spoke of what they planned for the future of the story. Solong had not gotten more than five words into his writing when he found that he just couldn't continue. Writer's block had struck, and he could tell that this bout had a good grip on him. He went through his list of cures, everything from food to music to opening the window and breathing in some fresh air, all of which failed. Temporarily defeated, Solong returned to his desk, and in a last attempt to relocate his lost train of creative thought, he forced his forehead to meet the desk multiple times, each meeting producing a loud thud, before resting his brow on the wooden surface and muttering expletives under his breath.
The culprit who had hijacked his train of thought had now turned to confront the metaphorical locomotive's owner. Once again, Solong fought to ignore the doubts that threatened his stability, but the internal sorrow was too apparent. It is hard to ignore the flames when you yourself are on fire. The foundation no longer existed. Solong could see that, and no amount of ignorance was going to overpower realization and acceptance now. He was doomed to plummet in his despair once again.