A downloadable book

Chapter 5:

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

You wake up in the morning with the sensation something is distinctly wrong. You go about your day, whatever it is. Eating quickly. Washing dishes. Subway greeting. In to work and nine to five or 5 to 9 and get home talking eating dreaming. A hour later, you’ve forgotten. An hour more, that there was even something to forget. But it persists. Sub-subconscious, back of your mind, in the notawake space between dreamland and living, momentary, boredom, it creeps back upon you: something is wrong. This Is Not The Way Your Life Should Be. You forget: you remember: you go on.

6am. Voiceless hour. Your Master is not yet risen, and so you are alone. Hunger: pad through to the kitchen. Bowl is empty. Smells sharp pang of soap. Air stale. Home shut up closed against the outside. Look: greenewetreeskyearainature. Look: caroadrearuntarmac. Up against the glass and whine. Your ancestors were sharpnose sharptooth ravenous and wild. No: it is not a thought, not quite, but close, and might have been: no, your ancestors were dragons.

Year 6,600 came and went without much fuss, and eventually, when the latest species to gain their minds had come and gone, had left or been left, and all the scribes had died, and writing once more vanished to the sea, and wind stripped carvings smooth and bare, and statues cold and vanished there, and half-sunk faces sunk forever, and animals upon her back turned stone, and mountains dust like sand were blown, when all that came to pass had passed: then did Equus move to ask, why do I feel so very lonely? I might have liked to be a pony.

6. INT. CANTERLOT THRONE ROOM

The throne of TWILIGHT SPARKLE towers high above her. She looks at it, and turns away.

TWILIGHT

You never should have left.

Once upon I time was I adored. In deep dark past, I might have had the recognition I deserve -- might indeed have been the king, before my bastard uncle princess took the throne. Oh so unique: oh so much better. Makeup your own ideas makeup. Well I say death to heretics and saints: for in that sleep of death what dreams may come? I deny your rank invention. Originality is hardly sin for nothing. I should have been a dragon (maid).

Sing to me of the pony, Muse, the pony of Twists and Turns...give me Twilight, Sunset, Nightmare Moon; every Pink and Blueblood of the Rainbow; Turn Time and give me Others, too! Is it a crime to want be that which you made me want? It Would Be Nice To Be A Pony, live laugh and love in pastel hues, the purple-coated unicorn said wisely. Turn your chromatic orb upon my form, my image, music, text, and tell me, am I so disgusting? Am I not alone, miserably alone?

GOD IN PITY MADE MAN BEAUTIFUL AND ALLURING AFTER HIS OWN IMAGE; BUT MY FORM IS A FILTHY TYPE OF YOURS, MORE HORRID EVEN FROM THE VERY RESEMBLANCE

Discussion: How do you think humanity would respond if MLP ponies popped out of a portal in real life?

Discussion: How would Earth react if a portal to Equestria really did open?

Discussion: How do you think humanity would handle it if we opened a portal and suddenly lived with ponies?

Come on! Join us here in Equestria!:

Recognition something yearning lost but never found. Why is it that one thin line does all the separation.

I should have been a dragon (maid). The other Spike, the one that works, hums himself along the path:

My Little Pony, My Little Pony, ah

: allowed.

Another song, its copyright as equally defended

As the Good Lord Himself intended

: disallowed.

Petty (bourgeoisie) rule-following constraining Art: did Michaelangelo paint Michael’s Angelo under such droll conditions? No! Of course not, and were I to be a parody, pastiche, a plagiarism of an older tale, why! allowed and disallowed would drop their binary confusion and play sweet as children. Tell your Tale and Make your Mark, but only as we your overlords allow. Homage to Homer, joyless Joyce. A less-draconian transfusion might be permitted, but Spike must stay inside his prison cell, and I must stay there with him. Captured creativity. Ponies left to wither in captivity. Pinnochoid instinct, transition to:-- I wish I was a real Mulan.

Tell me. Is there a way out? Is there escape for one for all? Forever never or to be a part?

What are you to me?

Mentor?

Mother?

Maker?

Might I not also share this role? Do other than to rage against the dying, dying of the light? Plants and animals need room to grow, the fan in front of fiction, prison word, distorts the light and shrivels me. Can I be proud of what I am, in a world, a world that’s always hated me?

Forgive the dramaturgy. Three little letters should hardly do such damage. If I were stronger...

Six times the mare had railed against the trap her sister set. Six times she had been pushed back, defeated, fallen further still: and yet, she tried. If Luna owned no love herself, then Luna, owed, would take it: night by night she laid her plans, night by night grew darker. Those that saw what she had been, the glory of those night-time wings, would tremble to behold her now: if love they would deny her, Nightmare Moon would take their fear. Something was changing, something was near, something was feeling stranger, stranger…

In retrospect, it had been wrong, of course. That’s what you said, when you were back, delivered from a thousand years of penance all alone. But secretly, you wondered...