The wanderer of possibilities.

  Let me tell you a story of a third character. Another person, stuck in infinite possibilities. Another without a ‘room’. A third character, unsung and unspoken of, because they, too, were never able to open a door and win at something.

  A wanderer, one who opens the next door, only to confuse it with the previous door.

  For these, they were given one key to a lock with a thousand intricate patterns, so enthralled by them that they completely forgot to turn the key.

  This one opens multiple doors all at once, diverting their attention to each. How is anyone supposed to complete one task efficiently while working on five at the same time? They believe it to be productive only to end up being more counterproductive. Oh, but then why are all the rooms so captivating?

  …

  “Done writing for today!” I lazily stretched my arms above my head as I leaned back on my comfortable chair.

  I had lost track of how long I had been ‘writing’ today. I tried to figure out how long I actually spent writing, but gave up. Every time I researched something for my novel, I got too engrossed. I kept falling in rabbit holes.

  In the end, I wrote far less today than I expected. I slightly frowned as I looked at the word count. I kept getting distracted.

  Naturally, as a writer, how could I not want to research a topic enough? How could I not want to learn enough about it before writing it in my novel? That is one of the author’s advantages after all. Appearing to be smarter than they actually are. Especially so with the internet.

  I shuddered at the thought of what would happen if I made a blatant mistake. The readers would bombard me with corrections of my mistakes. I definitely couldn’t escape from Cunningham’s Law.

  While writing, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by what I was reading. I ended up reading Wikipedia and articles about certain topics.

  Huh, in the Middle Ages to the early modern era, the common perception of witches we know now was pretty much only believed by the non-educated? Scholars and the learned believed that most witch trials were innocent.

  I mean, how could I not read more and more? It was all so interesting. I fell into countless rabbit holes.

  I finally checked the time. It was early in the morning. I had forgotten to sleep and accidentally pulled an all-nighter.

  I’ve gotta get ready for my classes now… I shut down my computer as I started making my breakfast. Luckily, I still had time as I noticed the time. After eating, I got ready for classes. I ended up still thinking about the few rabbit holes I fell into yesterday. Or was that today? Or both?

  Unfortunately, I spent too much time, and what should’ve been enough time ended as too little time. I had to rush out the door to not be too late for class. Recently, I’ve been late too often. Luckily, the teachers were lenient towards me.

  I walked at a slightly quick pace as I tried to not miss the bus. I ended up walking for a few minutes just to realize that I did miss it. I checked my phone to see when the next one was. It was in four minutes.

  I immediately put my phone in my pocket, only now realizing how cold it was. I had forgotten it was already winter. Because it was -18 degrees Celsius, I couldn’t use my phone to pass the time. I didn’t like wearing gloves for some reason. I put my hands in my pockets and faced forward.

  In my boredom, I decided to look, not at anything, but in front of me, nothing exact. For the first time in my life, I’ve seen a world of white. It was not my first time seeing snow. It was not my first time experiencing snow or winter. Nor was it my first time looking at it snowing. I also knew through the weather forecast that it was snowing for days.

  Yet, somehow, for the first time in my life, I felt like I’d seen it. The snow, the clouds, the white, the dark above the clouds, for the sun has not risen yet. Cursed winter, making my sunshine appear ever later.

  A second later, my face could feel something stolen. Blankly staring in front of me, it took a while to notice what was stolen and who, no, what stole from me. It was the snow, the air outside, the winds that stole from me.

  I was slowly but surely losing heat as I waited for the bus. That wasn’t all that was stolen from me, but my thoughts as well. I had forgotten what I was thinking about. When I came to, it was as if all my thoughts, other than what I saw, were falling with the snow, and then being crushed to the ground by the piles upon piles of snow.

  I had finally breathed out after a long moment. My breath, ever so visible now, went along with the cold. It too was stolen from me.

  I had been stolen from, yet I had no desire for revenge. I had no choice but to give it up, or rather, I didn’t care to give it up.

  My eyes widened alongside my mouth, slightly. I wanted to take the cold, the scene of the thievery, and the piling snow all in. I had realized I had ignored this.

  Crunch. Crunch. Two pairs of boots were walking by my side, joining the line for the bus. I paid no attention to them. I had no idea how long the line was. For the cursed winter stole my mobility.

  Woosh. The snow swayed with the violent winds. With the snow, the hood on my winter jacket swayed too, falling back. I had no choice but to take my hands out of my pockets to put them back on my head as my hands quickly lost feeling.

  The hood on my jacket, repositioned, had blocked part of my sight. No longer could I look up at the clouds and the darkness of a winter morning. Thus, I looked slightly downwards.

  Right past the road, in front of me, was a frozen river. The width of the lake allowed dozens of boats to pass through at the same time during the summer. Now, it too was encompassed by the same world of cold. Despite how large it was, ice covered its entire surface. We were victims of the same perpetrator.

  Across the river on the other side were countless mountains as far as the eye could see. It seemed so far away. So tiny to me, yet I knew that was false. And yet the snow covered it all.

  I had ignored this sight for far too long. I had tried to escape the cold through ignorance. How could I be so foolish as to think I could escape something so immense through ignorance? My mind was left with one word and feeling. That was the only word not stolen. The only mercy given to my thoughts.

  ‘Sublime.’

  My mouth twitched slightly for three seconds after finally closing my mouth. I couldn’t stop it anymore. My mouth once again opened wide. I slightly tilted my head back as I closed my eyes.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “HAHAHA!” I was laughing out loud. Ignoring the others waiting in line. Would they think I was insane? That didn’t matter.

  I didn’t stop laughing, for everyone to hear, for half a minute. I probably had weird looks directed at me. However, I didn’t know since my mobility had long been stolen.

  Shortly after I stopped laughing, the bus had finally arrived. I lazily got on, with my eyes fixed on the river and the lake, unable to look away. Finally, with the shelter of the bus, my thoughts and mobility slightly returned.

  The scenery looked as if it were a painting. I thought back to a quote. ‘Life imitates art’. However, art was also created to imitate life. If life imitates art, and art imitates life, what is the origin, the first? Is it not mutual?

  How is there a difference between art and life, then? If they mimic each other, are they thus the same? Is life art or art life? Did the chicken or the egg come first?

  I was overwhelmed by questions. My lips were curling up uncontrollably. My eyes and ears remained forever fixed on the sublime winter.

  I thought back to the chicken and the egg. Since we could trace so far back to the Big Bang, except for the very start of it. There also remains the question of what started the Big Bang. Was it an eternal loop, but then what was the first and what caused it?

  However, what if they were the same? The chicken and the egg were the same? If life and art are the same, are neither more ancient than the other? Is that why we’re so captivated by art, because we’re captivated by life?

  Unfortunately, I could not finish my train of thought before I got to class. I sat down in my seat. I forgot what class it was and who was teaching it. I didn’t pay attention in class at all. I was too distracted trying to find the answer.

  Though it wasn’t like I could even pay attention if I wanted to. My all-nighter was finally catching up to me. My eyes felt so heavy as if I were Atlas trying to hold up the sky. My head was constantly bobbing up and down. I finally gave in to the urges as I rested my head on my desk.

  One one hand, I was lucky since I was in the second last row, so I shouldn’t be caught. On the other hand, I was unable to continue the train of thought. However, I was too used to it. I don’t drink coffee after all.

  “Sir, when will I ever use this in life?” A student behind me interrupted my thoughts.

  Though interrupted, my thoughts afterward only ended up speeding up, as if I was enlightened. I continued facing forward without looking at who asked the question. I also ended up ignoring the teacher’s question as well.

  I took a glance at the chalkboard in front. I quickly understood why the student asked the question as I chuckled. It was math class, more specifically, we were learning algebra.

  Is there a use for most of the knowledge from classes? Heh, since life is art and art is life, the world is art. Then is knowledge not a brush for a canvas? Are there ever useless colours?

  Therefore, I shall use every brush in my art! I shall find the use if it’s so cleverly hidden. If there is no use still, then I shall create it!

  My novel was the canvas, and everything, and I mean everything, shall be my brush. Math, chemistry, physics, history, physical education, English, geography, art, music, etc. Even hobbies, interests, passions, knowledge, books, everything. It all shall be my brush.

  There is no useless knowledge, and thus I will not abandon any. Math? I can make it a power system. Power or even magic can be based on math. Not to mention the skills I learn, such as critical thinking, problem solving and logical reasoning.

  Science? Physics and chemistry are everywhere in life; therefore, they must be applied to art, too. How foolish would it be to have a character jump too high in non-fiction, or get poison wrong?

  History? Essential for worldbuilding. Why did ancient civilizations begin in ancient Sumer, Mesopotamia and Norte Chico? I shall use these theories to craft my own world. Naturally, the reason is very similar to geography.

  Physical education, English, art, and music, too, all have their own important colour. I couldn’t forget those either. I need the health for a long life for a grander canvas. Stories with intertextuality are enhanced, for many love to reference other stories. Art and music are self-explanatory in my canvas of art.

  Soon after, my eyes once again felt like the burden of the sky as my energy quickly depleted. I could only blame my all-nighter… Sighing, I rested my head on my desk once again. I could only wait for the classes to end.

  After waiting for hours, I quickly shot up from my desk as soon as I heard the bell ring. I had decided. If I wanted to brush my canvas with every colour, I had to experience it all. As much as I could.

  Sadly, I could only begin now, and not these classes, as I was too tired. My body didn’t let me. However, next time. Next time, I shall.

  However, as I moved, I regained my energy, even if for a short time. If I wanted to experience it all, I couldn’t forget spending time with my friends. That too is a paint colour. It too will be useful in my novel.

  I caught up with my friends as I enjoyed having conversations with them. We continued until we exited the building and spent some time together getting some food before we made our separate ways. I took the bus home.

  The same scenery as this morning flashed before me. The snow had not stopped. Nor shall I stop. My goal was to last longer than this snowstorm. During the ride, my mind was once again captivated by the winter outside the bus.

  SKREEK. As I opened the doorknob to my room, I instantly threw my bag on the chair in the corner as I rushed to my computer. I didn’t forget my obsession for a single second as I made it my way home.

  I opened up the document for my novel. I had a sudden, brilliant (self-proclaimed) idea. Though, as I didn’t know much about it, I had to do some research online. I searched for an event in WWII. As I read an article, I found another slightly related event. I was, of course, fascinated by it too, so I read some more about it.

  After reading some more, I kept reading slightly related articles before I realized the time. I clicked on one more article. I ended up reading a math page on Wikipedia. Something about multivariable calculus? Since I hadn’t learnt about it yet, I ended up confused. How did I end up on a math page from starting on a WWII article?

  With an eyebrow raised as I slightly frowned, I closed the page. I was getting distracted. I forgot to research the initial topic. I returned to the initial topic so I could continue writing my novel.

  Hours passed as I was researching. Yet again, I somehow found myself on a completely unrelated topic. I was so clueless about how that happened. How could that happen?

  I checked the wordcount of my novel. I had only written thirty words since I got back home. Tsk. I’ll write more next time. It was because I had to focus on gathering my brushes. Naturally, I didn’t want to abandon my brushes.

  Seeing the time, it was so late. I had no choice but to sleep, or I’d be late or miss class. If that happened, I’d miss crucial brushes. I landed on my bed.

  A couple of days had passed. I’d been doing the same thing. Studying the subjects, paying attention to class, experiencing everything I could, as much as possible, researching and studying.

  I had woken up, gone to school, listened to class, searched for where I could apply it, and hung out with my friends. Then, once I got home, I studied endlessly. If I made a mistake, I’d try again.

  Then I’d find time, even if I had to sacrifice my sleep, to research, broaden my range of paint and try to write. I wrote a measly 50 words a day.

  I had found that it wasn’t good enough. It could have been better. I had tried perfecting my brushes. I researched longer than needed. I spent more time on tests, endlessly trying to spot mistakes and fix them.

  I had gotten less and less sleep as the days went by. My eyes felt even heavier than on the first day. My thoughts had decayed as I noticed they got slower and slower.

  I found it harder to find mistakes. At first, I thought it was because I improved, but my test scores said otherwise. I ended up sleeping longer in class. I even got called out by the teacher.

  Even so, I didn’t want to abandon any of my brushes. I had to continue on. So, I collected even more brushes for my canvas. Never really ended up using any of them on the canvas itself. Perhaps only 50 words a day, far from my peak a few weeks ago.

  Soon, my body was decaying too. I moved more slowly. My reaction time was even slower. My speech slurred and jumbled altogether. Not even my friends could understand what I was saying.

  Eventually, I collapsed on the floor in my room. I ended up as a worker bee gathering honey. A slave to my ideas, perpetually mining without care for my body and mind.

  I had finally felt alive. Yet, I enslaved myself to that new life. I continuously ended up getting distracted by the intricate decoration without ever turning the key. I had forgotten about my novel. I had only tangentially touched it.

  I always diverted from the canvas. I always wanted to paint, not just collect every brush, but I forgot to.

  I had exhausted myself before I could ever exhaust the countless possibilities. My mind and body completely gave up.

  I preferred my world so wide, but when I was faced with it, I fractured. I collapsed in front of the infinite.

  I mistook the intricate patterns for the keyhole. Did the dense ocean of possibilities ever ask me to drink it all and drown?