Living on an island farm wasn’t in the plan. It sounds like something out of an indie movie, but there I was, sharing space with a bunch of animals and a horse named Camila. A small horse, probably a pony (?). Her main job was keep the grass low and turn it into manure, that’s it. I was glad that people weren’t riding her. The one time I saw someone try, I hid her saddle and said it was stolen. First time admitting that. Hope her owner never reads this.
While she was getting her job done, I was coding and designing in my own unconventional way. No fancy degrees, just a lot of trial, error, and late-night debugging. Friends called me a “GoHorse” developer. They laughed. I laughed louder. It wasn’t a joke to me. It was an honest way to work, none of that “fake it till you make it” nonsense.
One Saturday, feeling burned out, I went outside to check on Camila. The farm was buzzing, chickens clucking, cows mooing, birds having a full-blown concert. A different kind of debugging.
In the quiet of the stable, Camila looked at me, unimpressed. I scratched behind her ears, grounding myself in something real.
I led her into the paddock, her brownish fur catching the sun. Her shining eyes, she had the most incredible black eye, deep and knowing. I loved that eye. As we walked, I thought about unicorns, the mythical distractions I’d chased before. Shiny big ideas, big promises, mostly letdowns. Horses, though? They’re the real deal. No sparkle, just steady work.
She stopped and stared at a distant hill. I followed her gaze, a wildflower pushing through the cracks of an old wall. It reminded me of half-baked ideas that somehow survive, despite the chaos.
“Maybe it’s not about chasing the impossible,” I thought. “Maybe it’s about nurturing what’s real.” Camila nickered. Either she read minds, or she was just hungry.
At one point, I tripped over a root, landing in the grass like a broken script. Camila gave me a nudge, as if saying, “Bugs happen.” I laughed. Laugh at myself is my second language, after JavaScript.
As the sun set, I realized something. Horses don’t promise the moon. They’re just there, solid and dependable, ready to move forward. Unicorns? They leave you empty-handed when reality kicks in.
I spent the last hour with Camila, untangling ropes, telling her about my latest project fails. No buzzwords, no pretense, just something real.
Walking home under the twilight sky, I felt clearer than I had all week. Maybe it’s time to build more horses in my life. Real, steady, built to last.
After all, sometimes the most magical things don’t need a fairy tale to prove their worth.
So here I am, back at my desk, inspired by Camila and the wildflower. I’m here for real horses, not unicorns. I’m here to break even, not break hearts.
Sometimes, real is the most magical thing of all.
(っ-,-)つ𐂃
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