Chrysogon Mnemosyne

I questioned whether or not I should write an entry for myself. It seems egotistical, and yet I must acknowledge that I am a person of interest —if only as the author of all these glimpses into the memories and motivations of others. When I die—or if I abruptly leave this place and start over somewhere else, as I’ve so often done before—I know this book will be discovered and read. So, I will record something of my life here as an indulgence of your curiosity. Just know that this book was never intended for you. It was written for me. Many of the names in this book have meanings, and where I thought it was appropriate, I noted how the person’s destiny either upheld or disgraced the one they had been given. My name means “Gold Born” and in my childhood I wanted for nothing. My father was a ruler. My mother was the daughter of another. While it is often the custom that sons are married to daughters to create political alliances and concentrate wealth and power—and my parents were no exception— they grew to love each other in the way we all wish to become true for our own unions. They lavished attention, affection, praise, culture, education, and opportunity upon me, and one would assume that I grew up happy and appreciative of my good fortune. I did not. With no basis of comparison, my life felt perfectly ordinary to me. There were no obstacles, disappointments, or heartbreaks; no epiphanies, achievements, or transformational experiences. I just was, and the emptiness was intolerable to me. With my father’s position, I had an inordinate level of freedom which I exploited fully. I stole, I lied, then stole even more. I spread rumours of others’ culpability then planted evidence in support of it. I looked for people with enviable success and strong relationships and used all the skills I possessed to leave them humiliated, isolated and broken to the point where some chose not to live anymore. When I feared that I was about to be discovered I bade my parents goodbye, but not before taking the inheritance I believed would have been mine eventually. I would never return. I discarded my name and lived under dozens of others. I rose swiftly through the many guilds that were my home, rising to the top only to become bored and needing to begin anew in another city. I had no interest in leadership. Watching the chaos incited by my abrupt exit from a thriving enterprise was incalculably satisfying—creating dependence and then causing a void. An implosion of greed, entitlement, betrayal and violence. Beautiful madness. It took many repetitions of this behaviour to realize that the void that had always existed inside of me was infinite. Nothing filled it, and I’d learned instead to rejoice in spreading emptiness to others. It took longer still for me to understand that nothing about this path in life had done anything more than keep me a step ahead from being consumed by the emptiness. And then I quit. And I could, because I had somewhere to hide from it all. For all my wandering, I’d at one point realized I needed a place for my treasure and I bought a castle—not a guild. Naturally I couldn’t trust thieves to manage my affairs in my absence, but a number of men who fully understood my capabilities signed on as my hired staff. Having solved serious problems for each of them, they were loyal through a mix of fear and awe. When I returned unexpectedly I found that all was well, and they’ve served me faithfully to this day. I live under the pseudonym I created solely for the ownership of this castle and I am never seen. Everything I need is brought to me, and anything I send is delivered by trusted hands. I am content to be known to the common folk as a wealthy and possibly insane eccentric. It keeps them from scaling the walls. This book that you hold was not written for you, but for me. It has allowed me to escape myself, but to do so alone. While I never was able to feel, I quickly mastered the capacity to recognize feelings in others. While I never was able to truly befriend anyone, I was always a very good listener. And while I never felt I could belong anywhere, my indelible memory allowed me to retain the names and details of those whose paths I crossed, which are now catalogued here. Time spent distracting myself recording these lives has made mine more tolerable. Seeing these words, plainly staring back at me from the page, has made them more consequential than was the case when they were bits of unconnected trivia filed in my head. Reflecting on the work in its totality has given me much to think about. It is not a surprise to me to see pages upon pages of individuals who chose to squander their lives as foolishly as I did. More striking are the numbers who chose to do good, despite the existence of the rest of us, with no expectation of glory or reward, but just doggedly doing good for good’s sake. I can’t understand why. And now that I’ve indulged you, this exercise is complete. I don’t know how it is that you’ve come to read this, but it is not my legacy or a gift to living-kind. If I’m to be remembered at all, understand that the greatest kindness I showed the world was not to contribute, but to withdraw.