I dreamed of what I can only assume was the future. I can’t really explain how I know, just a feeling. In it, I had a stack of paper that I knew was my story, this story I’m writing. It was a large stack, very neatly piled. I remember reading it, only not from the paper. I suddenly felt like other ponies were reading it, too. I don’t know how, but every pony in the world was reading it like I was, without the printed paper I had stacked in front of me. They all had glowing faces and wide eyes, and while they read they looked odd. They made faces that suggested so many different things. Many ponies didn’t bother finishing the story, instead turning away or changing to something else instead. Again, I don’t know how I know what exactly they were all doing, or how, but I just know it.

I got the feeling that so many of them reading this didn’t like it. I know it was happening, or going to happen. I know what it felt like, and it felt like the future. How could the future involve ponies reading what I’ve written without the actual paper in front of them?

I looked back down at the pile and it was compressed into a book. The novel was fat and had sturdy binding with hard covers. I don’t remember the title, probably just because I never once thought of giving this story a title. I’ve wanted to believe it would become a novel, but… How can it?

In the dream, many ponies reading my story looked at the pages with disgust. Or, whatever they were looking at. They looked appalled by what they had read, and simply ignored it from then on. How can I possibly keep writing this with the discouragement of a future where whomever reads it won’t like it? Why would I bother writing for just a few ponies, possibly liking it?

I don’t like how this is making me feel…

In the dream, I left the book behind, and continued walking down the line. I saw the colors of the pony I’d seen in a previous dream, the chocolate tan and white mane. This time, the shape was clearly a stallion, but he still had no features. Oh, and he had bright green eyes. He looked angry. Then he looked worried. I felt upset, scared, angry, sad, lonely… all of these negative emotions. He looked at me, worried.

I woke up crying. I didn’t stop myself, allowing myself to sob into my pillow, and into the darkness. Tears dripped off my chin, and occasionally my cheeks, or nose. I don’t know why I was crying. My mind was unnaturally silent; Aura wasn’t there, no thoughts flooded or overflowed. No thoughts flowed at all, the way I remember. I was crying in the stillness of midnight when my dad came down.

He didn’t say anything at first, just sat on the edge of my bed and stroked my head. He let me cry, let me emote freely, as I was meant to from the beginning of my life. I didn’t turn to him once. I, for some reason, was angry with him. Did I still resent him for not being the stallion who raised me?

He stroked my hair again, then whispered, “Everything’s OK…”

Nothing felt OK, I felt like everything was wrong, bad. Then again, I had no idea why. I sobbed again, softer now.

“You’re still my son.” What’s he talking about now? “I may not agree, at first, with what you believe or want, but I’m your father and I will love you.”

I don’t want to think about what he’s talking about. I don’t want to think at all! I want to go back to sleep. I don’t know how to handle what I’m going through.

I don’t remember him leaving, and I don’t remember falling back asleep, but the next thing I know is the sun’s rising through my little window. I feel like pretending that all of last night was a dream; the part with the strange color-stallion, the strangers reading my story from thin air, even my father accepting me. Why?

Why, the hell would I not want to believe my father still loves me? Why in any understanding would I think it’s better for him to shut me out? Why can’t I just be happy with how he’s changed—how I have changed? My life is getting better: I’m moving to Manehatten, getting a job, leaving Green Stables. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? I’ve always wanted to just be who I am without being stopped or questioned. I’ve wanted to have my own future, live with my own ponies… My own lover.

I think I read something a while back, or maybe somepony told me about it: A psychological study suggesting the possibility of gaining an addiction to depression. I don’t know if I’d be medically diagnosed with depression, but this feeling, this sensation of needing to be rejected and shut out… I want my father to reject me, I think so that it’ll be easier for me to leave him. But, if we leave on bad terms I’ll only ever regret not having settled things with him. He’ll be on my mind the majority of my life afterward, I know it. Then, whenever we meet again, we’ll harbor a bitter resentment toward each other and every encounter will be tense and awkward. Our family will try to get us to get along, but nothing will ever work…

Why do I put so much thought into such a terrible future?

I guess, I’ll just have to silently resent my father myself. He can accept me all he wants, but until he’s the father I want him to be… I’ll never look at him the same.

Maybe I’m depressed, maybe I’m addicted to it, and maybe nothing can cure me. I’ll have to live with it, and if you’re still reading this, whoever—and wherever—you are, just know that this is where I’m ending it. This whole experience didn’t help the way I wanted it to, and knowing that whatever happens to this whole story won’t open anybody’s minds, or hearts, definitely doesn’t make me want to keep writing. I’m done, that’s that. Don’t expect anything else from this would-be author.