The Writer
I don’t profess to be an author. I put words on parchment in a certain order, but I am no wordsmith. I don’t have the distinction of following Daring Do and chronicling her adventures. Nor, do I have the means or the talent to accompany Princess Celestia in wording her royal decrees in a way that the common laypony can comprehend.
Had I had my druthers, I wouldn’t even be writing what I do write now. No one reads it, it’ll never get published, and in all honesty; I just drive myself insane with worry and regret. Nothing is worth that price of admission, not even fame. If it came to the choice between popularity and sanity, however, I believe I would make the wrong choice every single time.
All I had left to my name was the few meager writing supplies that allowed me to escape into a world that was somehow bleaker than my own. The whole point of escapist fantasy was to be in a place you wanted to be; to explore and enjoy the life you couldn’t in reality.
Therefore, by my reasoning, I must be a glutton for punishment. Instead of fantasy worlds full of adventure to be found or the eternal flames of romance burning brightly to warm ponies, my escape is an empty void constructed of madness and hatred. They say authors write from experience, but near as my recollection can tell, my life had been uneventful, if not worthy of envy from those who truly earned this pit of despair.
Every word I write while under the influence of this void seems to drip with blood and bile. The smile I put on for my friends shatters, revealing the wounded and battle scarred face of a pony who only had himself to blame for his ills. Those who know me would claim I was the nicest pony in Equestria, albeit a little eccentric and sometimes depressed. If that is true, then where is all this anger towards them coming from? Do I derive pleasure from such fantasies?
The eternal stare from Luna’s moon casts its waxing eye upon me through my window. Even in the light of such beauty, I cannot find solace. If anything, the presence of the moon serves as a reminder that the darkness is coming once more, destined to confine me to my sweat soaked sheets as fitful nightmares dance through my mind. I take another look at my scrolls, littered with scribbles and scrawls. Arcane symbols I have no business knowing and names of souls only read about in the tomes of Tartarus greet my sweeping gaze. Despite being a willing participant, the voice in the back of my mind tells me that this writing is not my own.
How I wound up in such dire straits I will probably never know, but you have no idea how it feels to think that you deserve such treatment. Perhaps I angered some long forgotten entity that sought vengeance? Maybe I’m an escaped horror from Tartarus, or worse, and don’t even realize it. I’ve played the part for so long it is my nature now.
It hurts, but you eventually take pleasure in the pain. Not that I would know anything about any other forms of pleasure. This life is not only cold and dark, but lonely as well. The ache from being alone is far greater than the pain from the urge to do horrible things to my friends out of petty spite. That dull cry you hear in the black void, is the sound of loneliness incarnate, forever the ambiance to something greater than itself.
Shadows dance in the firelight, amplified by the glow of burning scrolls. Those vile papers will plague me no more! Smells of brimstone and ink pollute the air, offering a choking relief to the darkness creeping in around the edges of my vision. I will not let this control me any longer. I shall stand and fight.
Grabbing the quill in my magic I set to work once again. Perhaps something simple is called for. A light adventure, or something for foals to read. I begin my craft anew, with disregard for everything around me. Freedom was the road I desired, and soon my inner turmoil would reside on this parchment instead of within my soul. The quill scribbled feverishly, as if alive. For a brief, euphoric moment, even I didn’t know what I was writing. It would be as much a surprise to me as anyone else.
Onwards I pressed. Embracing my darkness and letting it be the tool to my salvation. To write from experience, no matter how tragic or vile it may be. Express my innermost fears to the mortal eyes for judgement, so that I may have a clean soul for the final judgement.
Over... before I knew it, it was over. My spark had dimmed and the quill fell limply to the table. It was finished! A masterwork of insanity, crafted with the utmost care for all to view and postulate. Make of it what you will, because no single mind can make the complete image.
Dust settles around me, kicked up by the fervor of my writing quill. My head ached, my heart hammered. My soul felt relieved, and light as a feather. No more did I feel the ice in my stomach. Rather, the warmth of Celestia’s sun for the first time, cast through the glass and magnified to breathe life into this hollow shell once more.
By the time anypony else reads this, I will have been freed. You won’t find me here when this is discovered, nor will you be able to thank me for such insight. I believe a vacation is in order, and I shall take my leave today. Maybe see the countryside, or explore some lost ruins. Become a story instead of writing one, that’s the true meaning of being an author.
Years will turn to centuries, and my name shall be remembered with respect and revulsion. Brought up in conversation in the same breath as those authors whom I aspired. I finally made it to the top, and earned the fame I so desired.
Eternity had become my home, and I have never been happier.