The Futility of Words

By Thebandbrony

The soft, early evening moon reflected off his jet black mane, the sheen creating a halo of light around his head. He could not remember if he ever had a bright color on his body, save festive clothes he was forced into for formal occasions. His parents used to tell him of a time when he had a bright red, almost pink mane, filled with small, eccentric curls. They also told him how, as he began to write, he had spilled an inkwell on his mane, permanently dying it black. Ironically, in this spot of misfortune, he also found his special talent: Writing. He didn’t even know if the story was true or not, but it had never mattered. His gift, as cliché as it sounded, was also a curse. He was never happy when he wrote, and his special talent was writing. It was an inescapable torture on his soul which he could never escape. He had been called the best up and coming writer in all of Equestria, ponies lining up at his door for commissions. He had always turned them away, preferring to work with what came naturally. Money was hardly inspiring, after all.

He walked toward the edge of town. As he did, he passed the one place he would go to more than others; the town’s only receptacle of learning, the library. His work was there, of course. He could easily discern the black leather bound books from the bubbly, almost cartoonishly bright colors. His books were the type that ponies only checked out when they were sad, wishing to get sadder. He had miserable sleepless nights knowing he drove so many ponies to such sadness, but that was simply what flowed out of him: Sadness. It flowed light a river from his mind, even now, on his last night on earth, he felt it well in his heart like it had so many times before.

He made a decision, then, to say hello to the mare that helped him achieve the success. The pony, who happened to live in the library, had mentioned his name to none other than the princess at just the right times, in just the right places. Who knew that Celestia herself liked such morose tragedies? He had made the princess several hand-written copies, much to the delight of her majesty. Inconsequentially, he also spent the rest of that week in a dungeon for refusing to bow to the princess. “A pony can not spend his life with his head in the dirt. He must survey the land, lest he lose sight of why he is even here.” The words had brought most of the congregation to tears, but hadn’t spared him from his imprisonment. He wrote two more books while in prison, and gave the only copies to the Princess herself as a sign of forgiveness, guaranteeing him a permanent spot in Equestrian folk lore.

The door tapped the bell above it as it was pushed open, allowing him access to the cornucopia of books and knowledge. A deep purple colored mare, her mane disheveled and her eyes lined with deep bags, rose from a nook spotted with parchment and notes to meet him.

“Hey. What brings you here this time of night?”

“Just came to say hi, I guess.” They met midway in the room, and a friendly hug was exchanged.

“That’s it? Are you in one of your moods again?”

He chuckled. “No, no. I did want to drop this off, however. He removed a black bound book, the cover slightly inlaid with gold leaf, the title “The Futility of Words” sparkling as it hit the subdued light of the library. “It’s new. That right there is the only copy. It’ll fetch a pretty penny in Canterlot.”

She stared at him, light shock and gratitude plastered on her face. “Wow… you, wrote this just for me?”

“You bet. Think of it as a going away gift.” He said, revealing his plans for his last night alive without having to give away a single detail to Twilight. She would try to stop him if she knew, and he didn’t want to be impeded in his last endeavor in this life.

“A… going away gift?” The mare had picked up on something, but he knew she couldn’t pinpoint it. That was his way with words: too complex for the average pony, too sophisticated for the snooty Canterlot ponies. He couldn’t please anyone, his critics were so vibrantly outspoken. But then, his fan base was just as massive, including important musicians, politicians, and the princess. But then again, he was simply a writer. He never got to see pony’s reaction’s to his work. He couldn’t stand up and take a bow after somepony finished reading his work. He couldn’t shake hooves and be congratulated after his work was completed. His trade inclined him to mediocrity. Hardly anypony noticed him as he walked through a crowd. He was simply filler, another frowning face that happened to have the ability to drag ponies down with him into the depths of despair and self loathing. Whoopee.

“Hey, I need to go. Have fun reading that book. I think it’s really one of my best works.” He never complemented his own work, he didn’t even read it once it was completed. Never look back, he had always thought. Throw repercussions to the wind, and let them blow where they wish.

“I sure will… Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” They embraced again, except this time he sensed sadness emanating from the mare. It was then that she knew what he planned to do. He was glad she didn’t try to stop him. This step needed to be taken alone, and he knew that she understood this. He turned quickly and trotted away, not stopping to notice that his confident had several lustrous trails of tears streaming down her face. They sparkled in the light with all the grace and luminosity of diamonds, but he never noticed. He was already out the door by the time twilight broke down, her mournful wails echoing softly from the library’s walls.

Luna’s night was so beautiful, he thought. It was always his favorite time to write, the darkness pervasive and intruding, yet held abated by the orb in the sky, reflecting its light onto the earth below. Darkness was a prevalent theme in his literature, and, in what seemed a fitting homage to his character, he never wrote a single piece of literature in the day. The day was for happiness and peace. Only when the night came around were the emotions free to loose themselves upon paper, twisting themselves into stories that would leave readers in stupors of tears, begging for more. He could not always oblige, but he felt that when he did, he improved the lives of those reading. At least, that’s what he hoped.

He walked into the Everfree forest, nervousness beginning to creep into his subconscious. He shook the thoughts from his head. He wanted to do this. As he neared his destination, he thought about his life. Had the world really been made a better place since he was born? The question bored into his subconscious. Was it really worth the trouble?

What had his words accomplished? What had he himself don’t to improve the earth he was about to depart from? His words were just that, words. They held no real value but the value someone tacked onto it in an auction hall. He hadn’t bettered this world: he had only made ponies sad. His own inner loathing had dragged others down into the same situation he was in. That, to him, was heinous. What right did he have to ransack their emotions, leave them mentally destabilized, and in such a state that they barely understood anything but pain? He was nothing if not worse than a petty thief, undeserving of the air he was breathing. No matter what he did, his words would eventually rot, the pages would shrivel, and he would be left nothing but a binding, hollow and empty as he was now. He was just that, a binding without substance. There was no holistic completion, no words to satisfy him. His life was made miserable simply by the fact that he existed, and only death could possibly change that.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts he almost walked off the side of a cliff face. He stopped, took a collective breath, and prepared himself. He took a folded note, containing his will and some parting words, and his official seal stamp, unique to no pony but him: A black quill surrounded by an intricate inlay of web-like patterns.

Was it worth it? The question popped back into his head. This time, he had an answer.

No.

No matter what he did, no matter how much he wrote, he would always be empty. Hollow. A book without pages. At least, whatever happened to him next, he had the possibility to escape the never ending hate that consumed him so long ago. He would never have to make another pony sad again. If there was any possible silver lining to this, it was that he could go with a clean conscience. Yes. He felt at peace, knowing that he could allow those around him to be happy, enjoy life. He never could, but he could never hold it against himself if he ended up putting ponies in his miserable state. He was no longer sad, but felt the warmth of happiness well in his heart. He was ready.

“Time to go,” he mumbled. He took a deep breath, and stepped up to the precipice of the cliff. He would never have to see grief again. The thought made him smile, the first time in ages he had done such a thing. No pony had to be sad. It was too late for him, but it wasn’t too late for the other ponies of this world.

He cherished the feeling of happiness for a brief second. Then he jumped.