I had just finished my graduation defense, and my extraordinarily long school life had entered its countdown; the pressure of reality came rushing straight at me. The shelter of the ivory tower was completely over. This thirty-something old cat who had wasted so many years jumped down from the tree into the jungle, no longer able to pretend he was drifting up in the clouds. Work, marriage, career, firewood and rice, oil and salt, rent. I felt my utterly empty pockets and looked at the bustling street. Our ideals always wanted us to become fearless kings, but reality turned us into old militiamen struggling to stay alive. And so I squatted down and slowly gnawed on a Tortilla, thinking about how I was going to earn enough cat food to get by—for myself, and for my family's hopes.
This book was my first novel. From typing out that first spark of novelty at the beginning, to poring over obscure materials, to making my way through my entire doctoral life, I wrote it for five years straight. For this book, this author poured in a great deal of effort, and paid a great many prices. I also learned so, so much from the tangled history, geography, ruins, languages, and cultures of Indigenous peoples. Doing something I loved, bringing back the lost civilizations of ancient America—I never regretted it. I only hated that I had not worked hard enough, that I could not use this book I wanted to write to realize my "value" in society's eyes. And after this, it will probably take another five years, perhaps even longer, before I can finish this book, finish writing Xolotl's life, and bring this dreamlike, vast world to its end. For the readers who have supported me, and for myself, I will keep