I write for myself.

There is nothing I like better then to throw myself out of reality, to get lost in the music of my mind.

It is almost as soothing as the shuffle of cards against my hands, the gentle cut of the deck and the three cards that reveal a sneak back to the past, a tantalizing glimpse into the future, and a brief hesitation in the present.

The chatter from the voices that only exist in my imagination are enough to rival the constant hum and buzz of a school full of teenagers, who would rather be anywhere but where they are, and so they let time slip by until they are free from what certainly seems like a prison.

These beings that exist in only one place have kept me straight on the path I've chosen. They protect me from veering away into the arms of less loving hobbies, by holding my close, telling me stories in flashes of vision, and shouts amidst the chaos of all the others like them. They whisper their lives to me and I, ever the faithful scribe, retell their stories for them, so that others may hear.

I write for myself, yes, but I also write for those who cannot speak the common language.