In those days you did not think very much far ahead. You did not do this because there was much going in the present and that meant enough to worry about. The future was a problem for later and there were always more piling on and on and that made it so that you could not see the future for the present. There were paths that stretched from that time to the future, paths that if you squinted hard enough you might have seen where they were heading, and from them you might have seen the future, but that made heads hurt and you did not think too much on it. You weren’t supposed to, or maybe you couldn’t.

In the rivers and valleys and mountains of the world there are things mostly unknown to man, but it was thought long ago how best to claim them. Some tried to dig for them. Some blew up the land and tore apart the earth searching for the treasures that lay beneath. Some fought each other and some killed each other and some died pointless deaths in pursuit of these things. What none realized is that these can be found easily in the eyes and minds and hearts of their fellow man. Man is of the earth as are these rivers and valleys and mountains and so surely he could have what is theirs if he dug deep enough into his soul. And it is easy to find these things if this is understood. They are found in the things that enrich his soul. And these are the arts. These are the minute things that seem inconsequential close-up but from a broad perspective they influence the very nature of reality with the power they exert.

Art is not just a facet of the nature of reality; it is the warper and the maker. It is the definition and the changer. It is what makes life worth living and it reveals in itself that which makes life itself significant. Without art there is no life and without life there is nothing.

To write therefore is to write the story of life and bring to it additional meaning. You did not think this then nor do you really think this now. But perhaps you will look on your works and your arts and your words one day, and you will see what has been passed on, and you will see that you have done a great service, and you will see that you have written honorably and honestly. And that is all you ought to ask of yourself.

In those days you did not think of such things, but now you do. Because the future has arrived and you are it.

“Well, it’s interesting,” Mac said, glancing up from behind his reading glasses as he sat in their little green recliner. “But, I guess I gotta ask ya what it means?”

Ink was sitting a little ways off, at her little desk where the late June sun was shining brightly through the open window. The AC was blasting and the apartment was all cool. She looked back at him, her hands still set on her keyboard, and frowned, though not out of dismay for his confusion. “I’m not really sure,” she said. “It just… sorta came to me.”

Mac nodded sagely. “Like that sorta stream-of-consciousness stuff at the beginning?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

He got up out of the recliner and walked over to the other window, the papers still in his hand, and gazed out, removing the reading glasses from his face.

Their apartment was in Canterlot, on the 27th floor above one of the numerous boulevards there. Below was the busy street and above was the city skyline. The June summer heat was inbound but it was not too hard to deal with if you had air conditioning or a stronger stomach. The apartment itself, small though it was, fit the two of them well and without much cramping. They hoped it would be temporary.

He could hear Ink back at work at her keyboard, furiously typing up the remainders of her third draft. He was holding the back ends of another previous draft which she thought she could incorporate but never quite knew how, since it felt so out of place, in her opinion. He watched her for some time. She sat somewhat hunched but without the likeness of an old lady such as Granny Smith, and worked with the same passion and vigor he had fallen in love with all that time ago. He smiled. Even this far into her project, her novel spurred her forward with the promise of publishing; it helped, too, that that Mr. Prose kept in touch constantly, and was there for advice as well as critique.

Mac looked back down at the sheaf of papers in his hands. He was not an editor by any means, but he was a reader of Ink’s work—her first reader before anyone else. He had been that way for many years, now that he thought about it.

And how many years had that been, and how many things had happened in those years? As he gazed outside, the memories began to collect and form before him.

He thought not of that night, but of the next several days, first getting teased by all of their friends “for taking their sweet-ass time,” the one named Gaige had put it oh so eloquently. Braeburn had even written them a letter, expressing his thanks for “putting up with mah shenanigans” and wishing them good luck and farewell. The last Mac had heard, he and Little Strongheart had reconciled; they’d even begun dating again, though of course with plenty of hesitancy on their parts.

He smiled, thinking of dating, and then of romance. Somehow all of them—they who had gone to Canterlot High and had all of their strange and exciting and often crazy adventures there—had managed to stick with their significant other. Sunset, Rarity, and Pinkie had been the first three to be asked the big question, and Gaige had been next to follow, and never discreetly, of course. Now that had been quite a time. Mac could still remember Ink telling him about little Scree Mo, him jokingly suggesting he come over and intimidate the little squirt. That had been in Ink’s early teaching days, now that he remembered. Those had been good days. She was a veteran teacher, now, and Scree Mo was in one of her classes. Go figure. Good kid, though, Mac was thinking.

That wedding hadn’t been all that long ago, hadn’t it? No, Mac still had the postcard with the invitation sitting on his desk in their bedroom. Not even a month ago. There was a photo next to the window sill of that wedding, complete with all the guys and gals they had come to know, a truly complete photo if there ever was one.

That had been the last wedding before June had hit. The last wedding before all of them had begun to move away. Well, time was like that, Mac supposed; when it came, so too did others, and when it went, so too did they.

He almost chuckled aloud. Ah, Ink was rubbing off of him with this sort of thinking. But that wasn’t a bad thing, was it? No, for him, it was the best thing.

His hand found its way into his pocket, and pulled out something small. It was a small, square box. Inside that was a promise.

He looked back at Ink, and did not really see Ink now, but instead saw in her their future, and it was a good one.

“Hey, Mac?” she called without looking over her shoulder.

“Eeyup?”

“Are the reservations still on for tonight?”

“Eeyup. Do you want to change them?”

“Nah, I was just making sure you were on top of things.”

“Ink, I’m always on top of things.”

Ink made a tittering noise. “Well, while you’re thinking that, maybe you can come over here and tell me what you think so far.”

“Sure thing, Ink.” He came over, putting the box back into his pocket.

It had been four years since that night where they had told each other the truth of their hearts. He had never since loved any other, and never would for as long as Ink was here. The box was his promise to that.

Author's Notes:

And that, they say, was all he wrote.