A scribe, the hand to tell the tale of a world- nay, worlds, that have long since vanished. And yet... perhaps not. Perhaps they remain, so close, yet just out of reach. 
This is the reason for the stories I inscribe. To share what was, and what could be.

The stories remained within me for quite some time. Too long, perhaps. But even so, there was always an urge. An urge to have them be more than just thoughts and echoes. To see them become real, as real as can be, at least. In the hopes that, perhaps, vindication might follow. Vindication for all the time lost.
There was also ever another urge. Something all pursue at some point, and something I could not admit for a long while: The hope of recognition. Of course, there are many reasons others chase after notoriety. Perhaps they seek attention. Or wish to obtain whatever privileges fame might yield. All fair reasons, but not mine. No, I only wished for one thing. 

To know that any of this was worth it. To see something I have done matter in some way. And although that may sound like a plea, it is not. Rather, it is a hope that my stories create something more, resonating with others than me. To see it ignite... a spark, if you will. A spark in others.