It is the first moon of this new world. The night wind blows strong, and the ink of my pen dries quickly. I begin writing this passage at the twenty-first hour as the minute hand strikes eight. It is the third day of the first month, forty-one years after the carnage that severed the last of man’s chains, though not before he was dragged to face the indelible apathy of the universe that birthed him.
In the era long gone, it was said that people could be “scarred for life”, that there existed memories horrifying enough to be etched into the deepest facets of a man’s mind, and there they would stay rooted until death. Perhaps this is true for most men, though in that case, I suppose that would make me an extraordinary man, which I do not find myself to be so. Still, I cannot discount the fact that I have faced many distinct experiences in my time on this earth, with a number of them being memories I originally had thought unforgettable, and yet today there are only two memories that I can truly discern from all the rest.
I’ve endured more days than there are stars seen in the heavens above, yet I still remember a day in my ever so distant youth. It was the day my grandfather taught me the meaning of legacy. To most people of the time, they thought it to mean the will left behind by predecessors for descendants to claim. Under that definition, I suppose that I would be carrying my grandfather’s legacy, his conceptualization of what the word really means. I remember the exact words he said to me on that starless night, while gazing at the lone moon.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“A legend. A man’s legacy is the legend he creates for himself. It’s the proof that he existed, and that his life held meaning, even if he was never born with one. Thus, he dies satisfied, and free.”
This memory was once forgotten. I had indulged in the world that cared not for me, and deluded myself with abstractions and lies. I was nothing but a cog in the machine that had run for eons before I was conceived, yet I had believed that there was some kind of intrinsic meaning to it, and that I was truly happy.
As I remember this past, I feel neither sadness nor hatred towards my naivete. Even after staring deep into the maw of hell, after every last vestige of my humanity was stripped from me, after seeing the world the way I do now, no matter what I hold no regrets. Perhaps it is because I lack the resolve or vindication. Nevertheless, the past is a burden I will continue to bear.
The story that I lived, and the words you shall read, will be my legacy.
-Alexander Zhukov