To those who find this book amidst the ruins of what once was this world, I offer my most sincere greetings and regards. I have wandered aimlessly through these devastated and empty lands, lived through dangers, adventures, sorrows, and losses. I have also met countless people who, together with me, contributed to every sentence written within these pages.
Many were the hardships we endured trying to move forward, and the fact that these writings have reached your hands means that my journey has come to its end, and today, the remnants of my presence in this world have reached your hands.
Esteemed reader, I do not know you, nor do I know the hardships you have faced in this world of chaos, or how bitter it has become after my departure. But I know that you, too, are trying to survive amidst the debris this world has become. Unless you tell me that the world has finally changed, and flowers sprout from the ground, trees bear fruit, people are smiling... If so, I consider you fortunate, and perhaps you can enjoy this story I have to tell of my times.
But, if I am not mistaken, can anything truly change in the old world? Did not war, pestilence, and human greed make the world we live in a chaos? If the world has changed for you, perhaps my bones will find peace. But if not, I hope the little I have put down in these pages will serve as experience and encouragement for you not to give up. For I continued to drag myself like a worm across this earth, and as I look at these pages that your eyes see today, holding them in a desolate place that was once my home, my house, my road, leaving in my wake, like bricks paving my path, my friends and companions who departed, walking among the corpses that piled up like dust.
My brief existence has been that of a wayfarer, whose days, like the memories and evidence of my passing, fade into the earth. I have gathered journals and notes in an attempt to decipher the catastrophe that plagues us, from the outbreak, the war, the plague, the famine, to what remains of history.
The books are gone, the accounts were silenced with the death of the elders, and tales and legends perished, just like every sprout of life on Earth. My present is your past, and I hope it does not become your present. May your days be better, and may my tomorrow not be your future.
We are born crawling in the mud and dust, and to dust we return. Like worms in corpses, we are pests that consume and are consumed. We call this the "eternal cycle," the "cycle of life," or the "nature of things"—it sounds too poetic to me, but it was something I was told a long time ago. The elders spoke of a time, before the dead walked and with more stars in the sky, when we were prosperous. Cities touched the heavens, we flew in iron contraptions, and we controlled fire to the point of turning cities into uninhabitable deserts.
I believe all this is nothing but lies, stories to deceive dreamy children and make them forget the horror of the present: hunger, misery, and bitter, foul water that often tries to consume us. The sky is brownish with clouds that corrode metal and kill what they touch, the gray soil crumbles in our hands. Where did such an advanced civilization go? How did it end? Were they responsible?
So many questions, but no answers. I am venting to a piece of paper found in the rubble, which I stitch into a leather cover from a nameless beast, the easiest one I ever brought down. I have much more to write, but I need to leave. I am gathering my travel notes, hoping they will help you survive these sinister days.
I take my leave here. Do not give up, please. I won't give up either, I can't. I still need to know the why of all this. Good luck!