To write a book worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.
Not because I need an award. Awards gather dust. They eventually become another object on a shelf.
What I hope for is something quieter.
I hope to write something that outlives me. A book that someone opens years from now and still finds truth in. A book that reminds a stranger they are not alone, or helps someone understand a history they never knew they carried.
Most of all, I hope my words become proof that I was here.
That I lived. That I paid attention. That I loved enough to write it all down.
I hope that someday, someone I’ve never met will turn the final page, sit in the silence for a moment, and begin asking questions. Who was this man? What kind of life shaped him? Why did these stories matter so much to him? What was he trying to leave behind?
If they dig deeply enough into the words, I hope they’ll find the answers. Not because I ever wrote about myself directly, but because every honest sentence carries a little of its author within it.
Long after my voice has gone silent, I hope the stories remain. Not to make me unforgettable, but to leave behind a small piece of light for whoever comes next.
If that journey one day leads to a Pulitzer Prize, I would receive it with deep gratitude. But the prize has never been the dream.
The dream has always been to leave something behind that time cannot easily erase.
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