Three weeks is a long time.

Watching with the same unending gaze as the sun crests the horizon, tinges of pink and orange filling the sky with its majesty, I can only sigh in content. A pigeon finds my shoulder to be an apt perch, and promptly takes his seat, cooing and gazing at me wantonly.

Ponies begin to pass me by, moving in their tired slumps towards work, hungover stallions and exhausted mares alike giving me not so much as a passing glance. Their eyes keep to the road in front of them and their minds keep to their Monday morning grumbles, never giving a thought to the lonely sculpture to their side. Hooves stomp onwards, and the streets steadily fill. Birds maintain perches upon my shoulders and back, as I take in the wonders of the world.

Three weeks now, I've been stoned, and they've been the best weeks of my life.

Seeing the world this way is majestic and belittling, awe-inspiring, and existentially frightening all at the same time. It's exhilarating. It's all the sensations of life that I've missed for all these years, and it took giving up my breathing, equine self to experience it once more...

I no longer awaken to the flashes of cameras, or the screeching of fan-mares in the morning, but to the quiet sunrise and the humble avian folk who call this city their home. Canterlot is a busy place for living, but even the birds find their best times upon these sprawling streets. After seeing the world from the eyes of a statue, I'm inclined to agree with them.

The city may strike some as a haughty, in-the-know city, and they'd be right - fame comes with contacts, and a little hint of talent. Unfortunately, I had both in abundance, quickly rocketing up the charts to become the top musical producer in the nation! Ponies everywhere were buying my records, mixing my music, even griffons and minotaurs found their way to my shows! It was what I'd dreamt of my whole life, growing up as a lonely filly on the streets. Sure, I had a home, but the streets were where I found my life: from days and days of sitting on the benches, eking out a bubblegum fund from passerby with my urban instrumental work.

Everything has music inside it, you've just got to know how to wring it out of that item. Park benches make great percussion instruments, and even an empty can could be used to create a haunting whistle. I used this discovery to my advantage, and broke into the music scene with my own genre! Lyrock, they called it! Just because a filly has a lyre on her flank doesn't mean she's restricted to strings, and soon, I had a number of albums under my belt. Sadly, success has its own baggage: fame. It started slowly - sometimes I'd be noticed by a passerby on my morning walk, given a hoof-bump at the coffee shop, small things, you know? It felt warm and fuzzy inside, knowing that the ponies I threaded my way through each day were recognizing me for what I'd accomplished. It felt good, intoxicating even. I drank from the wine of fame, and fame drank from me my strength.

Soon, I couldn't so much as grab my morning paper without one of the neighbors asking for an autograph. They'd lived next to me for years, and some of them hadn't spoken to me since I was born! Now, they were acting as though we'd been pals for life, and my fame was their ticket to the big life. Cameras followed me to the newsstand, their constant clicks grating on my nerves not unlike a malfunctioning metronome. Several times, I've lashed out, swatting their cameras with my paper, or dumping my coffee on their negatives, in a vain attempt to loosen the grip the media had on my life. No longer could I make music as I had grown to love it: on the streets, surrounded by the sounds of the sleeping city awakening from a raucous night. No longer could I connect to what had brought me to where I am today, the winding roads of the capitol, their nook-and-cranny shops wafting home-crafted scents, and the chirp of the morning flock over the growing rumble of the morning commute.

I had lost my touch with my talent, and with it, reality.

I started to slump, no longer perking up at a mention of my name nor smiling to the numerous lenses following me. I stopped caring if they followed me to the loo, I just wanted to live again, thinking they'd leave me alone if I did the same. I refused talk show invitations, and summons for celebrity events and awards shows with distaste. My musical production ground to a halt, and my fans teemed with unrest as my career began to spiral downwards.

That was when I met her. The mare who would answer all my troubles and save me from myself.

Fluttershy.

She helped bring me back to my roots, to the world I had left behind months and months ago, when a small filly could get by on candy and sweets bought with change thrown in her lyre case, and the world would go on, as though never stopping to acknowledge her existence for more than a passing second. I missed those days and cherished them deeply, and Fluttershy helped me realize them once more. She's in tune with nature and knew just what to do to revive my old style. Petrification.

The transformation was as interesting as it was fear-inducing. As her cockatrice spread its petrifying gaze over me, my limbs locked up, the blood and bones converting to solid marble. I felt a heavy weight in my gut, forcing me to the floor. In my prone position, I felt weak and helpless as my cells became stone and my mind struggled to fight the anxiety of losing my physical life and being locked away as nothing more than another sculpture amongst the gardens. I battled with regret briefly, wondering if I had made the right decision to be locked away for a month, unknown to the rest of the world save for myself and a lone mare who I had barely known. As the creaking marble encased my eyes and brought an end to my mortal being, I shuddered, letting go of the stress and grief I'd held from the endless weeks of my fame winding me down, as my sight shifted, and the Gardens of Canterlot became my new home. She came by a few days after, and told me how peaceful I looked and seemed to her, sitting amongst nature and the trees, my only audience the open sky.

Sitting here, covered in birds and their refuse, I couldn't agree more. Society just moves on, ponies passing by, the sun rising and falling with the breaths of the world - and I get to experience it all from obscurity.

I am in bliss.

Though I cannot feel my heart beating, nor my body moving under my stony skin, I feel more alive than I have ever felt. Nothing escapes me now; the sensations I feel are incredible. A passing breeze, carrying the scent of cologne and perfume from the morning crowds, drifts by me. Pinpricks run down my marble spine, a rush of false adrenaline surging through my limbs as a single body approaches my prone form, my shoulder inhabitants taking flight in surprise. My legs ache to move, to push me away from the intruder, but they are locked within stone, the feeling of a coiled spring building within my gut. The pony draws near, and I recognize but one feature of this mare: her camera. I shudder within my prison, fearing the worst. Have I been discovered? Will my unending peace be brought to a grinding halt by camera shutters once more?

As the shutter snaps, I realize she isn't gawking at me or asking for a signature. Instead, her gaze falls upon the flock of pigeons that has so bravely taken its residence upon my back again. She ignores me completely, cooing and calling out to the birds with seed in her hooves, beckoning them off their perch. As they swoop down to the free buffet offered, the shutter snaps once more. She must be a nature enthusiast, out to capture the wonders of the urban wilderness. My heart warms as I see the dedication in her work, and the passion she gives to each photo. It reminds me of myself when I was starting my life: Young, brash, and not afraid to do what it takes to make the best they can.

Her shutter snaps once more as she gazes up at me, taking pity in the waste that has cluttered my shoulders and head. Using a kerchief, she wipes the droppings from my face, cleaning my form and bringing a sheen to my surface. I feel each little squeak of the cloth as it sweeps away the refuse, revealing my marble form in its entirety. A bolt of recognition crosses her face, leaving her to connect the dots.

"You remind me of someone I look up to."

Her voice pierces my eardrums, and I sit in shock, wondering if this is really happening.

"You look somewhat like her too. She was my inspiration growing up, and her take on the music of urban nature gave me the confidence to push on." A laugh. "It's silly, really. Why am I even talking to a statue in the first place? It's not like you can understand me." She pats her hoof on my back, laying her forelimb across my form. "Even though I wish you could." I bristle with anxiety. Is she upset with me?

"Lyra pushed like no other before her. She turned Canterlot's musical scene on its head! Playing with sticks and bird chirps as percussion, and using her lyre with the wind was just brilliant! I had to experience nature for myself, to see where she came from." She lifted herself off me, turning to look upon me once more. "I used to think the birds were annoying. Now they brighten my day. And it's all thanks to you, Lyra." Her hooves wrap around me in a tight embrace as my heart swells with pride. Have... Have I been making this much of an impact on ponies? I thought they cared more for what I ate in the morning than what I made them think about!

As this unknown mare clings to me, her smile growing deeper as she connects to the one soul who might understand her, I curse my luck. I had tried to escape my success and ponies in general by becoming part of the background. Part of the landscape. In my haste to run from my fame, I gave up what connected me to nature and to music in the first place: life. I wanted to reach out, to hug this mare back, remind her that the world is scary, but to soldier on. I wanted to cry with joy that I was being recognized for something more important than the type of bath tissue I buy, and caress the wonders of music in my hooves again. I wanted to call out and confess my lament at giving up life just to feel content as a nobody, to recompense for my actions. I wanted to feel the course of the beat of nature as the sun crossed the sky, the crack of my sticks against benches and pavement, the wail of the birds in my soul.

I wanted to live again.

I felt a warmth budding in my chest, filling my body with tingling and aches. The edges of my vision began to brighten, and I felt a sensation I hadn't in weeks: pain. Prickles filled my limbs, their dull white sheen turning aquamarine once more as my heart began to beat again. The wonders of the world never left me, they were as much a part of me as I was of them, and as my lungs drew their first breath in three weeks, I knew that my place was amongst the living. The scent of the trees and the smog of the city burned my sinuses as they reformed, and my eyes welled with tears as my body broke free from its marble prison. The mare, taken aback, could only stare with shock as I stood before her, and cracked my limbs. After three weeks of avoiding life, I embraced it as I embraced her—with all the strength my body could muster.

Tears dripped down my face as her hooves found their way around me, hugging back for what seemed an eternity. I soon let go, blown away by what stood before us. A massive crowd had gathered to witness my change, drawn by my own wailing sobs. Faces held smiles and tearful eyes filled my vision as the crowd erupted into applause. I couldn't hold it back any longer, my emotions catching up to me after all this time, as I collapsed in her embrace. I welcomed life back, but it took me by force with its return.

As I awaken now, lying in my own bed, I look outside and wave happily to the small crowd that has taken residence upon my property boundaries. Their cameras still flash and flicker, foals wave their autograph books, and their cheers still ring in my head—but it no longer grates on me as it always had before. After seeing the world through the eyes of a part of nature, every aspect of life is like music to my ears.

As I make my way outside, to the cheers and flashes of the shutters, I can't help but whistle to the tune of life, ever ramblin' on.