The amorphous future we all ponder. The things that lie in wait, and the goals ready to be reached. Do you wonder if it’s fate or your own decisions? Is it written in the incandescent stars that shine in velvet nights? Or is it decided at birth with success engraved into one or failure to another.


Well I can tell you it is none of those. I can tell you that no one knows. That fate isn't a road that is traveled blindly, like stumbling in the darkness. I can tell you that even we don't know your entire future. Who are "we" you ask? "We" are the path makers, the weavers of past, present, and future. We are three, ruling over one state of mind, one state of time. We are the three fates and I am future.


I weave your roads that can be taken. You choose the one that are taken. In and out, needles of knowledge and pain flash as your life changes. I set the paths in front you. The threads of love and grief bound your past; the garment leaves choice for you. Every new person to enter is a different shade, from honey primrose to dark cerise, from tranquil cerulean to inky black. Every choice no matter how small, no matter how large, affects future paths.



Frost graces the thin, slowly yellowing grass in the frigid morning air. In a rustle of winds I stand in a small hospital room. At break of dawn and dying dusk I visit the ones whose future teeter on the edge. Their lives are far too frayed to predict, to help. In this room a boy barely six, sits sickly and weak at his bed, medical contraptions stuck into him. The boy cannot see me, cannot hear me. He watches the sunrise, the golden fingers of dawn creeping up painting the sky pink. He watches the stars fade and die, the sky dancing from midnight blue to azure.


The faintest trickle of a tear escapes him, leaving a crystalline track behind. He cries not for beauty, but for regret. Restrained by illness and repressed by pain, he has lost a limb and faces losing another. He will never walk, or so he has been told. What I have seen, what I know is that he has more. More potential, more strength, more life, more than what anyone knows, more than even he. The boy has two main paths; branches that trickle of to two different lives. One is tainted with black and grief, painted in sorrow. The other shines with hope and strength, it glows with a future. The boy must rise above what he is told. He has to fight and live with what he can. I can see the success that shimmers beneath.


I already know his mother will be here soon. She has spent the night crying. She left so he wouldn't see. Later that day he will go through rounds of painful medical procedures made to cure him. He has a variety of ways to respond to these. He can: cry, argue, fight, whine, and scream. But I know he will do what he does every time. He will be strong.


Apollo's sun chariot has finally chased the gloomy night away. His arrival is my time to leave. The boy has wiped his tears, the red faintly tingeing his sad brown eyes is the only evidence. With a flick of my wrist I leave him with determination and hope. I only increase what is already there. I would help him with strength but he has enough on his own. With a rustle of winds I leave the room.


Dusk comes quickly; Apollo and his horse descend gracefully. It's time to visit a girl filled with desperate hope. A girl filled to the brim with magical potential, but so much stands in her way. Her fabric is an abundance of resplendent livery, overflowing with rosebud pink, shining gold, and spring green. Despite the cheer and obvious joy, I see the dark undertones of stark purple jealousy, dark gray doubt, and burning red hate. I see dark roads winding down to shadowed misery.


A fierce gale screams, passionate, but brief, ending so quickly you need only to blink and it's gone. Most things of passion are like that, full of desire and temptations, but often short-lived. The gale takes me to the room of a small girl, whose passion is the opposite. Continuous dedication and love have stroked a flicker of talent to a wildfire of skill. Her youthful features distorted in that of pain. Lips pressed into a thin line that suppresses a scream. Her little fingers clutch desperately at pale pink satin ballet slipper. Her story is simple. The girl has danced for years and the jealousy of others has made her lonely. Her talent is incomparable, a true prodigy of the refined art.


Her physical pain comes from an injury of over using her talent. The despairing loneliness and shunning pushed her to find comfort. She found it within dancing. Now that's been robbed from her. I kneel to see her face. Tears threaten to spill over her vivid green eyes onto smooth porcelain skin . For a girl so young she has so much bleak sorrow and distress. She hides the pain behind her smiles and laughter.


I place a light hand on her frail shoulders. Optimism and sheer love of dance are the emotions I choose to enhance. Then I straighten, watching the sadness fade from her eyes. I blink once examining her room. The light lavender walls and flowers are another reminder of her young adolescence. My eyes briefly flit from posters of dancers caught in the elegant twirls and leaps to the pile of ballet shoes shoved into a corner.


The girl takes a deep breath and slowly muscle by muscle, she loosens her tight grip on the slipper. It falls slowly making a soft thump upon contact. The girl looks down at her feet. White bandages are wrapped firmly around her ankle, her toes red, and her feet faintly grotesque. She breathes slowly, inhale, exhale. The confident composure returns and determination light up her piercing green eyes. I see the potential to become a wonderful Prima Ballerina. I can see a future where there could be intricate solos and standing ovations. But it is only she who will decide what will be.


I let a soft breeze whisk me away. Every dawn, every dusk I come and see those who need me. I come and strengthen them. Each one has potential, each one has talent. Success is not predetermined, you must achieve it. Lives intertwine and spin away, I only map out the roads, the paths that can be taken. Decisions are always yours.