My life has started, I have been birthed into this world, and now, now I will strive to be what this world expects me to be. I was created and now I have been born, such a strange, cold place this is, so this is the world

The tiny, miniscule form of the lithe puerile colt is birthed, and he lays blinking. It seems to him that he is blinded and that he cannot see anything but that ethereal illuminance which embraces him in its cold and arcane embrace. There seems to be nothing welcoming, and for a while he is dazed by the world. And he lays there, lays there until he feels a reassuring warmth upon his hide and he knows, knows by instinct that it is his maternal. Thus he turns his finely molded countenance towards her, noting her warm breathe which washes over him and the reassuring presence which greets him. He stares then, at the other bundle, huddled beside him and he notes his sister and sees her for the first time. And his coat, a monotonous repitition of black on black, and he nots that his color is dull. Such contemplative actions overtake him and he is deaf and blind to his mother for the moment, rather in an awe, rapture at this big new world. And so he stumbles for a moment, mentally stumbles oer such obstacles. Wondering what that and this was. Such curiousity, and thus, amidst his absurd contemplations he struggles to use these useless limbs that were given him. He strains to spring one forth and does so, and with the agility and lissome skill given to him at birth he attempts several times to rise and thus succeeds. Seeking his mothers teats and the vital supplement which will see him through many a day, how did he know? It was all there, all instinct and knowing.