Let us begin as every man does—with a name.

You may call me Ran.

It is a strange name, one that does not belong to any linguistic family, lacking phonetic ties to any root or origin. Even in the language I write this in, it occupies an uncanny space, vaguely echoing the word run.

Perhaps that is fitting, for running is exactly what I do next. I run until the futility of it sinks in, stopping only long enough to accept the truth.

I grip my mettle, dulled from unrelenting battle, worn down by a fight I no longer have the means to win.

And so, I run again. Not as a tactic, not as strategy—this time, I run in manic despair, shouting my distress into every ear willing to listen. These words you read now are that very cry.

So listen, dear reader. Listen to my shriek of desperation, whether it is meant for you in this moment or, if my plea goes unheard, for me and whatever remains of my legacy.

I do not yet know how keeping this record will shape my fate. Perhaps it will leave me exposed, vulnerable. That seems the most likely outcome. But even so, after a lifetime of silence, these words offer me release. If nothing else, let them exist for my sake alone. I have already lost more of myself than I care to admit, and I cannot afford to let another fragment slip away.

To remain remembered—here, at least—feels like enough.

I write slowly, for reasons I will share in time. Already, much has changed between these words and the person I am as I write them. Yet, to the outside world, nothing has shifted. That, I suppose, is a blessing. I am still here, still moving forward, even if my progress is imperceptible. Perhaps there is still time to write it all down.

From the moment I began this and cast eternity aside, change has forced itself upon my soul and body. I have fought to hold it back—to resist it—until I can fully accept what lies ahead. Until I can witness the archiving of a world seen through the intimate lens of my own history.

Eternity…

One of many monsters hiding in plain sight. One that held me in its grip for far too long and one that I will bring attention to during my time here.

I should begin by saying my life has been shaped by tunnels—small holes within my identity, acting as borders between the fragmented pieces of who I am.

But this is no mere fissure. No small, hidden rift.

This Tunnel is an unavoidable mountain, demanding to be seen. The greatest threat I have faced so far.

And if nothing changes…

It may prove to be my nemesis.