I am who I am. Delorfinde. But that is not my name. Who, then, am I? Who can I be in this world, without a name, a handle? I am who you perceive me to be.
No, I am not a philosopher. In fact, you could almost say that I am a philosophy. I am that doctrine of faith which rules your life. I dictate your morals and your decisions; you have no choice when you are with me. Yet I am nobody you know. I am nobody you have ever seen: nobody can describe my face.
This is because I am gone.
I am no longer a spirit on this world but one who is absent, one who has departed. Yet not a ghost, not a ghoul, not something from a foolish horror story or ghostly tale. Just something that is forgotten.
And still I suppose you might call me a memory.
But I am a memory that drifts astray on the wind, a memory that is not tethered to one human, mortal mind. I am a memory that inhabits nobody but remains free. And so I pass thus out of human recollection.