Background Pony

III - Foundations

Dear Journal,

What makes a pony? Is it her dreams? Her thoughts and her ambitions? What she hopes to accomplish before she dies? Is it her fears and her worries, the many things that she dreads in life?

When I lived in Canterlot-when I was around my family-I knew exactly what my future was going to be. I knew the type of a career I was going to pursue. I knew the kind of stallion I was going to marry. I even knew the type of foals I wished to have. If someone had asked me then "what makes a pony," I would have answered with "the sum of all my talents."

That was an easy thing to believe while I had a home. When I arrived in Ponyville-when I was thrown through the frigid veil of endless night-it was as though a trial by fire had robbed me, had burned me of all the things that I had long taken for granted.

I don't think anypony can be prepared for becoming homeless, for what it means to be worth the sum of all one's talents and not a single one of them granting her food, bed, or a hug to safely surrender to. No amount of years of musical composition or philosophy could have prepared me for the nights I spent searching for food in the streets or a place to sleep in the shells of abandoned buildings. There were times when I could have given into dread. A sane pony would have had no choice but to give in.

But, as I soon realized, nopony could be any more prepared for becoming so blessed-as I would be blessed. If it's the home that makes a pony, then I'm built out of the grit of those far stronger and more generous than I. There are many souls in Ponyville who will never get to hear the songs I make for them. But that's hardly the tragedy I once believed it to be, for the building blocks of my chorus already exists in their hearts and throats. I know this, for they've been so gracious as to share such foundations with me.

My shivers stopped as soon as I heard her. It had to have been her; I knew no other pony who took that dirt path between my house and her farm. Under the roar of a summer's rainy downpour, I heard her scuffling hooves against the wooden stoop of my cabin's patio.

I looked up from where I sat with a pen and paper, finishing the final touches to a written composition of "Threnody of Night." Before me, the flames of the brick-laid fireplace had dwindled to a dim glow. I was so engrossed in work that the invisible winds of cold were barely bothering me. The rain continued to pound against the wooden rooftop shingles, and still I heard her lingering just outside. I was more curious than concerned. Adjusting the sleeves of my hoodie, I stood up, trotted across the cabin, and swiftly opened the front door.

Applejack jumped and spun to face the entrance, gasping. I wasn't used to seeing her startled... much less soaking wet. The poor mare stood on my porch, drenched from head to tail. Blond bangs framed a freckled face beset with shivers as she blushed a shade of red embarrassment.

"Greetings," I said with a placid smile, keeping the door ajar with glittering magic. "Kind of a lousy day for a walk, isn't it?"

"Oh. Pardon me," Applejack muttered and fidgeted. The world was a thick curtain of veritable waterfalls beyond her. The dirt path snaking past the cabin had long morphed into a dark brown river of mud, and the bright light of the afternoon refracted a ghostly gray sheen across the forest stretching beyond. "Uhm... Shucks, this looks really, really bad, I reckon." She chuckled sheepishly. I spotted a basket bundled with soaked towels beneath her, as if she was using the last vestiges of her own dry flesh to keep the package from being soiled any further. "I only meant to take a breather from this dag blame'd flood. I swear, pegasi don't give us as much solid warnings like they used to."