The night is silent except for my heart, its beat drowning out my every breath. I wonder why I continue to try my hand at writing. Why? Do I believe I have the necessary skills to be a successful writer? Or do I have a story to tell? Perhaps I am not the greatest of writers, perhaps not even a decent one. Yet stories, of those, I have many. Some people grew up with imaginary friends, some imagined they were on a great adventure while exploring the woods. Me? I’d survive well in solitary confinement. I close my eyes for but a moment and I can picture anything.

I feel the slight moisture in the morning air as I stare out across the ocean. The sand slithers between my toes with the tide and my perspective changes ever so slightly. The waves bring much white wash ashore, it pays me no attention. I raise my hands to the sea, beckoning for greatness. My breath grows short and my muscles tense. The waters reject my wishes as I force my will upon them. My efforts are not in vain. A thin tower rises forth from the turbulent waters, followed by a staircase of sand. It stretches toward the sky and my body relaxes. I begin the long ascent but the stairs seemingly dissolve beneath my feet. The door to the tower is the only hope, and I burst toward it with every ounce of adrenaline the body can muster. The door handle slides through my fingertips as staircase and tower collapse back toward their watery resting place. I fall with them, the breeze whistling through my ears as I plummet toward the ocean. I close my eyes as water engulfs me.

The water is hot on the skin and steam twists and contorts like the spirits of the damned. I brace myself and the tiles are colder than I could possibly have imagined. My hand recoils in shock and I turn from the heat. Through the glass, I see half a man. He is naked and featureless, but from the waist up I can tell he is staring at me. I daringly wipe the condensation from the glass in front of me and the man returns my gaze. I recognize him, but his face seems different than I remember. As we stare at each other, I realize the mirror is beginning to steam up and I end the flow of warmth with a spin of the knobs. I step into the cold and stare at myself. Is this who I am? Where am I? The cold embraces me, and the heat of my skin rebels. Steam rises forth and it looks as though I am smouldering in the night’s bitter chill.

I take a deep breath and exhale. The jet of steam shoots forth and rises into the sky, dissipating before it gets too far. I turn to my companions who are huddled around the camp fire for some venison stew. I would join them, but something stirs in the night and in the freshly fallen snow. I can feel it watching me as I shift my gaze through the moonlit forest. I step forward and listen for any sign of movement. Nothing. I draw my sword and swallow my fear. I see it and it sees me, the damned White Wolf of Everwinter. I stare into its icy blue eyes and it stares back into mine. For a moment we admire the foe we face, but I have a task. Winter has brought famine to our lands, the animals are dying almost as fast as the people and we came to hunt the cause of the Everwinter. The wolf reads my intentions as if I made the declaration myself. I stand prepared as hundreds of pounds of wolf descend upon me from its rocky perch.

I fall to the ground and the flowers cushion the impact. I hear their tiny stems crunching beneath my weight. I stare out upon the universe and ponder our very existence. It is vain to think that in the infinite number of planets beyond our skies, we are the only ones who exist. Through light and time, I see another, laying in a field staring into the sky. She doesn’t realize it, but her and I are exactly the same. We will never meet. I close my eyes and envision the dimension of time and I see not only our planet, but others that have passed through this point in space at one point or another. Barren planets, advanced civilizations, scavengers of the universe, meteors, suns, a shuttle, a moon, a storm and that is merely a few things worth mentioning.

I open my eyes, blind to the world. The gods have a sense of humour and give a blind man the gift of foresight. To see the future but not be able to recognize the signs is more of a foreboding curse. I see a young girl, with auburn hair and fair skin, and she alone holds the ability to destroy the future or preserve it. “What do you think?” I ask wryly. I listen closely for any reaction. The voice I hear is young and melodic, as if an angel were speaking to me. “I don’t know, I think fortune telling is for the weak minded.” She stands and I feel her lips on my hand as she kisses it. The hairs raise on the back of my neck as she bids me farewell. I stand to protest her departure, but she is gone. Only the scent of her perfume hangs in the air.

In a blink I am back, staring at the journey today has taken me through. Every person in these thoughts are real; They have lives, families, histories and futures. I do not write because I want to, I write because I must. I write so they can live and their stories can be told. I write because despite the infinite number of worlds where a version of me may exist, I want to be the one to tell the story. I want to be the one who grants the girl the ability to overcome overwhelming odds to preserve the future. Who else will tell the story of my extraterrestrial doppelgänger? How else will the Everwinter end? Will I follow myself into the looking glass, or am I already there? Will Atlantis rise for its forgotten prince? Will I finish a story?

Something tells me that I grow closer to that everyday.