[ WP ] Every night in your sleep you meet a successful-looking future you who tells you what you should do the next day . So far your life has gone well indeed , but one day you fall asleep during the daytime . You meet a tired , disheveled version of yourself who begs you not to listen to the other .

“ Don ’ t do it. ” 
 
 For years I had been receiving visions. Visions of a brighter future. A future where the worries of today; famine, war, poverty, were nightmares relegated to obscurity. A world where every man, woman and child could live out their lives in peace and harmony, free from the uncertainty that plagued them, free from fear. A world where I could be happy. 
 
 “ Stop before it ’ s too late. ” 
 
 It started when I was five, the day my mother died, as I shuddered in fitful sleep. I ’ d woken in the to the sound of deep, heavy breathing. I ’ d opened by eyes and found myself face-to-face with a man, his hair streaked with white, his eyes lit with a deep knowing energy. Needless to say I screamed, I struggled, I tried to run. I couldn ’ t move. I blinked. He was gone. 
 
 The days went by, the months, and with each day came a night, and with each night came the nightmares, and with each nightmare I awoke to the same face, silent the save the sound of his breath. I started to believe I was broken, damaged. I told my dad and he laughed, returning to the bottle. I told my friends, pleaded with them to believe me, they thought me strange and abandoned me. I don ’ t blame them. I told my teachers, they sent me to a shrink, who diagnosed me with mild parasomnia brought on by anxiety. He was wrong. 
 
 Two years passed and the man started talking, telling me strange and wondrous tales. I lay there and listened, time immaterial in the darkness, to the path he put before me. At first I felt nothing but fear, but his stories pulled me in, designed as they were to entice and bewilder, simple in their execution but with a gravitas that I was unable to appreciate when I was so young. The tales he told, of great Kings, Conquerors that controlled the world, Knights that roamed far and wide performing deeds of good, finally helped me sleep. 
 
 Five years passed and I was no longer afraid. The man had been there for me, through the years, helping me through the night. His stories had been replaced by direct guidance, wise words whispered that gave me what my father could not. He taught me how to manipulate, what to say in every situation, how to succeed. I went from a waif, drifting through childhood from detention to detention, to the popular kid in school, beloved by all. I could do anything. 
 
 Fifteen years passed and the guidance now came with visions. The meaning was clear. 
 
 “ Do this and you will be great. ” 
 
 “ Do this and you will succeed. ” 
 
 “ Do this and you will get your heart ’ s desire. ” 
 
 His true nature was clear to me now, he was me. A wiser me. An older me. I became successful, starting my own company. I became driven, growing and expanding. I was a bright young star that could not be ignored, and being a star comes with opportunity. I grew wealthy, I grew powerful. 
 
 Thirty years passed and it wasn ’ t enough. I had ascended the corporate ladder, it wasn ’ t enough. I had run for office, it wasn ’ t enough. I ’ d started charities, helped people, and for awhile the work had sated me, but it wasn ’ t enough. The man in the dreams still came, but now he looked back at me in every mirror, the white streaks of hair that seemed so strange now a permanent reminder of who I ’ d become. I still listened, and still he guided, but the guidance had changed. 
 
 “ What are you missing? ” 
 
 “ When were you last truly happy? ” 
 
 “ There ’ s one thing you still need. ” 
 
 I had to get it. 
 
 Thirty-one years have passed and now I stand here on the precipice, the ice cold rain running down my body as I stare at the mound before me bathed in moonlight. He is here, different, true, but still a version of me, his clothes dishevelled, his face gaunt. 
 
 “ Please, this will be the end of us, stop. ” 
 
 I brush my hand over the stone, sweeping aside the vines and dust. The lettering worn but legible. “ Here rests Grace, loving mother to her son, wife to her husband, taken cruelly before her time. ” I raise my shovel.
