Diary of the Nameless

Date unknown.

I write not out of clarity, but necessity. A compulsion gnaws at me, one I cannot name, only obey. The sky today is bruised with storm clouds. The air carries the tang of ozone, yet no rain falls. It’s strange how I notice these details; they’re as familiar to me as the lines of my hands, yet they do not comfort me.  

I walk. Always walk. Endless cities, barren fields, mountains that scrape the belly of the heavens—all pass under my feet. Yet each place feels like a half-forgotten dream, vague and fleeting. I have no home. At least, not one I remember.  

There is a name people call me—whatever suits their tongue, their language, their whim. In Rome, they whispered “Eternus.” In the East, I was “Jiwandhar,” in another land, “Walker.” But I have no name to offer them.  

How do I explain to those who ask where I come from? I don’t know. My earliest memory is this: I woke by the edge of a forest, naked and cold. I don’t remember the year, nor the season. My mind was already blank. The world around me spoke in a language foreign and hostile, but I learned. Quickly. Survival demands ingenuity, after all.  

Perhaps, in some strange way, I have always been.  

---  

Somewhere beyond the desert. The 115th moon I’ve counted.

Today, I saw my reflection in a puddle by the roadside. A gaunt face stared back—hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, hair dusted with streaks of grey though I feel no age within me. I am neither young nor old, neither alive nor truly dead.  

“Who are you?” I whispered.  

The man in the puddle gave no answer.  

The uncertainty plagues me. I see other travellers, fleeting as shadows, with stories etched on their faces: the furrowed brow of a merchant fearing poverty, the wistful smile of a widow clinging to memory, the burning eyes of a child brimming with the hope of first love. But when I look into their faces, I feel nothing. Only echoes, faint ripples in a vast, empty sea.  

Do I envy them? No. At least, I think I do not. There is a freedom in my detachment, weightlessness in drifting from place to place without bonds to anchor me. Yet...  

There is a hollowness to it, like a hunger that cannot be satisfied.  

---  

In the city of Almekh, where the alleys reek of fish and decay.  

I met a woman today. Her name was Lira. She ran a stall selling carved trinkets, delicate little creatures fashioned from wood. She smiled at me, called me a “wanderer,” and asked if I was lost.  

Lost. The word struck something deep within me, a resonance like the toll of a faraway bell.  

“Perhaps,” I said.  

She offered me a small figurine—a bird with outstretched wings. “A gift,” she said, “for a traveller with a heavy heart.”  

I didn’t realize my hands trembled as I accepted it. I stared at the tiny bird for hours afterwards, tracing its contours, its every imperfection. Why did it affect me so? It’s just wood, lifeless and mute. But holding it, I felt the faintest flicker of warmth.  

I lost it later that night.  

---  

Beyond the frozen cliffs, where breath freezes in the air.

The cold here is brutal, unrelenting. I’ve seen the bodies of those who could not endure it, huddled in makeshift shelters of rock and snow. Their faces are twisted, not in pain, but in peace. I envy them. I’ve tried, you know, to join them in their stillness.  

I walked into the heart of the storm, letting the wind slice through me, the frost cling to my skin. I lay down and closed my eyes, willing the cold to claim me.  

But morning came, and I rose.  

Always, I rise.  

---  

A village whose name I didn’t ask. A woman and her child.  

I stayed here for weeks, longer than I intended. They took me in, gave me shelter, and shared their meagre food. The mother’s name was Karina. Her daughter, Elis, was perhaps six.  

Elis was fearless. She would tug at my cloak, demanding I tell her stories. I made them up, of course, though sometimes the words felt oddly familiar as if borrowed from some distant part of myself. She laughed often, a sound so pure it made my chest ache.  

One night, Karina asked me where I was from.  

“I don’t know,” I said.  

She tilted her head, studying me with eyes that saw too much. “You’re lonely,” she said.  

It wasn’t a question.  

When I left, Elis ran after me, clutching a crude drawing she’d made. A man under a bright sun, his face turned to the horizon. “So you don’t forget,” she said.  

I tucked it into my pocket, though I knew I would lose it. I lose everything eventually.  

---  

The edge of a vast ocean.

Here, at last, I stopped. The waves roared, endless and untamed, as though daring me to challenge them. The salt air stung my skin, and I dug my fingers into the sand, desperate to feel something real.  

I screamed. A raw, guttural sound ripped from my throat, carrying years—centuries?—of frustration, longing, and despair. The ocean swallowed it whole, indifferent.  

What am I? A man without memories, without purpose. A vessel emptied of meaning.  

I’ve met so many people, and seen countless lives unfold like fragile blooms only to wither and die. And yet, I remain.  

Why?  

---  

Under a sky spattered with stars.

I dreamed last night, for the first time in… I don’t know. In the dream, I stood in a great hall, its walls lined with mirrors. Each mirror reflected a version of me—some younger, some older, some with faces I didn’t recognize.  

In one mirror, I saw myself with a family: a woman with kind eyes, and two children clinging to my legs. My heart ached with a love so profound it nearly shattered me.  

In another, I was a soldier, clad in blood-stained armour, standing amidst a field of the dead.  

And in the final mirror, I was alone, as I am now.  

When I woke, tears streaked my face. I didn’t know why.  

---  

Today.

Something has shifted. A memory, faint and fragile, surfaced as I walked. I saw a village burning, the cries of its people echoing in my ears. My hands were stained with ash, and my chest was heavy with guilt.  

I don’t know if it was real, or just another dream. But it felt true.  

What if I’ve done terrible things? What if this endless wandering is penance, a punishment I don’t remember earning?  

Perhaps that is why I feel so detached from the lives I encounter—because I destroyed my own long ago.  

---  

The final entry.  

I understand now.  

I am not a man without memories. I am a man whose memories were taken, or perhaps discarded because they were too painful to bear.  

The fragments that remain—faces, voices, fleeting sensations—are pieces of a life I once had. A life I cannot return to.  

I think I was happy once. I think I loved and was loved in return. I think I lost it all.  

And so I walk. Not to find answers, but because I cannot stop.  

If you find this journal, know that I was here. Know that I existed.  

Perhaps that is enough.