Chapter 1: Prologue

To my future children:

If you are reading this, it means I’ve long since passed on. I know this is redundant; no parent lives to see their children. Still, I am sorry. I wish it were different.

Children are born from the death of their parents. This is the guren way. It’s not just a biological imperative; our culture celebrates it. We wax poetic about how our existence mirrors the cosmos; how, in our final, most brilliant moments of our lives, we sacrifice ourselves to give rise to new life. With every end, a beginning. With every death, new life. A beautiful, endless cycle.

I could never see the beauty of it.

It didn’t have to be this way. Most of the animals we’ve documented manage to live alongside their offspring. It’s easy to imagine a world where we could do the same. One where lovers could mate more than once and children could be raised by the people that gave birth to them.

Instead, to bring us into the world, our parents first have to become one by literally fusing together into a birthing pod. Inside, their bodies are dismantled and remade into our brothers and sisters. We emerge, at the end of this process, into a universe where our parents have already ceased to exist.

We’re the only species in the universe capable of comprehending our own mortality, and to have children we must also choose to die. This is preposterous, and yet my view seems to be in the minority.

Perhaps it’s a cultural thing. From the moment we’re born, we’re taught to remember and honor our parents above all else. We listen to stories told by friends who knew them in life. We receive diaries they kept before they passed, like the one you’re holding now. We spend our entire childhood building a connection to people who are already gone.

Maybe all of that makes it feel natural. But I never experienced any of it. I had no stories to remember them by; no diaries or keepsakes to inherit; no people who knew them in life. I didn’t even know their names. There was only the void left by their absence. To me, a parent who dies and leaves their children behind constitutes nothing but a tragedy.

But here, for the first time in my life, I think I see the beauty hiding within.

We may never get to see our children grow up, but we can leave so much behind for them. Our memories, hopes and dreams; lessons we’ve learned and guidance we wished we could give; messages of support, comfort, and love. We can record them in diaries. We can entrust them to our friends, who will pass them on to you in our stead. Before we leave, we can give you a place to belong.

“It is the duty of the child to remember; it is the duty of the parent to record.” So goes the ancient proverb, yet I’ve avoided both for all my life. But now, I can run no longer. I must change; for my sake, and the sake of others, but mostly for you, the children I may one day in the far future leave behind.

If you are my child, reading my words in this diary I have left for you, know that I love you. I love you more than you could possibly imagine, and I am sorry I cannot be there for you. I truly wish I could. But I will leave behind all I can for you. Every story, every moment I can think of. I will do everything in my power to ensure you know where you came from. I will never let you feel lost and adrift. You will carry me with you, always.

There are many stories I have to recount. No doubt you have already been told some of them; tales of fantastic adventures I went on in my youth. I will write them down someday. Maybe I’ll record myself narrating them—I bet they’d make great bedtime stories. But there is one I must tell before all others.

It was the end of a journey that had spanned centuries. It was my greatest adventure, and also my deepest regret. It’s what spurred me to write this diary.

This is what happened on my final expedition to seek Origin.

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