On which you've staked your life

“If I can imagine a thing, does it exist?”

The slim, well-kept man gazed out the window as the words slipped from his mouth like syrup. His fingers rested intertwined on the dark chestnut desk, illuminated by a sole antique lamp.

When he heard no answer, he turned toward his desk and repeated the question with more intentionality.

“If I can imagine a thing, does it exist?”

His guest, a dark-haired journalist whose form and attire revealed limited, but not insufficient income, opened his mouth slightly but said nothing. He already felt intimidated by the man behind the desk, who clearly did not want for anything, and his superior appearance seemed to be matched by a superior intellect.

“Descartes, in considering proof for the existence of God, said this: ‘the mere fact that I can produce from my thought the idea of something entails that everything that I clearly and distinctly perceive to belong to that thing really does belong to it…’” He paused to gauge if the journalist was following.

He was not.

“That is to say, Descartes used a stream of logic to justify the existence of an all-powerful being. Some would say that his thoughts, in a way, created God, yet I am of the belief that God exists on His own account. God Himself created with mere thought. So if God demonstrated this with all of reality, and philosophers attest to the power of thought, why, then, could I not do the same to create something attainable: wealth and power?”

The journalist had his pen to a worn notepad, yet could not find words to write.

“You asked me how I created Bitcoin, and I am trying to help you understand that I did not create a single thing.”

The journalist broke his silence; “But sir, are you saying you didn’t create Bitcoin?” Was this meeting nothing more than an elaborate prank?

The man laughed softly as he again turned his gaze to the window. “I did, and I didn’t.” He unfolded his hands and opened a drawer. After a brief moment of searching, he produced a leatherbound hardcover book. “Do you know what this is?”

The journalist, unsure if this was an intellectual trap, stuttered, “... a book.”

“Good. Yes.” The man slid the book across his desk into the full illumination of the lamp. “It is my full account of the creation of the thing you call Bitcoin.”

There was a long silence, the journalist unsure of what he was supposed to say or do.

The man continued. “What value would you place on this?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Do you consider it valuable?”

“Very. I consider it very valuable. I imagine someone would pay a tremendous amount for it. Even knowing your true identity would be worth purchasing it.”

“Why is it valuable?”

“Because it answers everything people have been asking for years. Because one could replicate what you’ve done.”

“What have I done?”

“You created Bitcoin.”

“Did I? Haven’t I already admitted that I did not create a single thing?”

The journalist was thoroughly confused. He came to this office -- arranged by a string of anonymous sources and connections -- for answers, and was finding himself with more questions than he had the capacity to handle.

The man leaned back in his chair. “Take it.”

“What?”

“Take it. Take the book.”

The journalist stared at the man before quickly grabbing and opening the book.

Every page was empty.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“That has been clear since we started. What do you not understand.”

“It’s… It’s empty, there is nothing here.”

“And yet you said it was valuable.”

“I did, because you told me…”

“I told you it is my full account of the creation of the thing you call Bitcoin. I also told you that I did not create a single thing, and therefore there is no account to fill these pages. You ascribed value based on what you believed, and what I handed you was nothing more or less than what I claimed.”

The journalist was equal parts confused, frustrated, and frightened. “I don’t understand what you are telling me.”

“So you’ve told me. You are not listening, and this is the flaw to which you and others have bound yourselves. I asked you before if something can exist simply because I imagined it, and your presence here provides the answer.”

“What is the answer?” The journalist furrowed his brow, “...and how did I provide it?”

The man leaned forward, his eyes piercing his guest’s and a slight smile curling his lips. “Why, you came here asking me about Bitcoin, which proves that I can create simply by imagining.” He paused, then leaned in more. “I can see that your inability to understand persists. Can you tell me what Bitcoin is?”

“It is a decentralized digital currency that…”

“No, no. What IS it?”

“... I... it's difficult to explain. There hasn't been anything like it.”

“So either your awareness is limited, it is the first of it's kind... or it is a fallacy posing as reality.”

“I suppose, but how can it not be real…”

“What is real? What is unreal? Descartes believed that his imagination proved that a thing like God could exist, God spoke and Creation was, and I imagined that I could possess wealth and power simply by believing it into existence. Bitcoin is not a little gold coin, it is a concept that has been accepted. That was the hard work, eliciting buy-in, yet here we are: millions are investing in, submitting their security to, and staking their lives on a thing that was simply an idea in my mind. I imagined it, and it then existed. I said it existed, and you ascribed it incredible value.”

The journalist’s notepad remained empty, but his mind filled. The man could see his struggle, and stood as he continued. “I imagine you feel you will leave here with nothing, and I apologize that the non-existence of Bitcoin prohibits me from offering you what you desire. Yet I can offer you something of greater value. To do so, let us start simply: my name.”

This caught his guest’s attention, and the pen pressed into the pad.

“Don’t get too excited, I can’t give you my true name; I will need that level of anonymity when I pass the codes to Andreson. No, I will tell you the source of my moniker. First, do you know what solipsism is?”

The journalist searched his mind for his college Philosophy courses. “If I remember correctly, it is the philosophical idea that only someone's mind is guaranteed to exist.”

“Good. You see, you do have understanding. Do not undersell yourself. At its core, solipsism values the mind above all is. It is central, it is the foundation, to all we are, and outside that is risk. Yet one’s mind can be underutilized or corrupted, even with knowledge. If knowledge is not enough, what is?”

“Satoshi Nakamoto!” The thrust of the journalist’s voice surprised them both. “...I’m sorry.”

“No, you are understanding. Continue, not for me, but for your benefit.”

“Your name… your moniker… I’ve researched it to understand. ‘Satoshi’ can be translated as wise; ‘Nakamoto’, is a central place or foundation.”

The man walked around the desk. The journalist’s eyes remained stationary, his mind caught in the moment. “Finish. You are almost there.”

The man’s breathing grew heavier. “You had an idea, and idea for wealth and power, but you had to create a division so that you could not risk losing it. You created an identity based on the very thing you valued, the very thing you knew could bring you what you desire: a solid mind of wisdom. You imagined an idea -- an idea of an intangible currency -- which simply needed others to believe it to exist.” The journalist laughed unintentionally. “You knew the best way to evoke validity was to involve absurdity; ‘bitcoin’, ‘mining’... you knew if you were too serious people would question it, but creating things worth questioning served as a deflection.”

The man was now standing over the journalist. “And then?”

“And then you let it exist. And grow. And now…”

“And now…”

The journalist broke from his stare and now looked at the man, confused. “And now you’re giving it up?”

“What am I giving up? How can you give up a thing that never existed?”

“But…”

“How long can a non-existent thing continue to exist? Isn’t that a paradox? Don’t you realize that I built this to exist off the grid? Don’t you know that the earliest and boldest adopters were hidden in the black market? I can continue to benefit from my non-creation wherever I am. I have everything I need, and giving up the codes will not change that. In fact, that act will protect it.”

The man left the journalist’s side, crossed the room, and opened the door. “When this ends -- this thing that is Bitcoin -- no one will know who to blame. Even if they did, they would not know where to find me. In fact…” the man opened the door, “...you will be the last man to see me.”

“What?”

“I know, that is dramatic. Others will see me, but none will see me in this context, this association with Bitcoin. I will be like anyone else, just a man… albeit a secretly wealthy man.”

The journalist sat dumbfounded; a minute passed before he recognized the open door was for him. Gathering his things, he stood and approached the door, locking eyes with the man before he passed through.

The man raised his hand slightly to stop the journalist. “I see disappointment in your eyes, and based on your deduction’s focus on Bitcoin I surmise you have missed the valuable gift I’ve given you.”

The disappointment in his eyes transitioned to confusion. “Gift?”

“My friend; you came here for information on Bitcoin, and I told you your pursuit was after something that does not actually exist. And yet, you still desire that information. Let me say this plainly: your scope is frighteningly small, and as long as it is so, you will be incapable of seeing the world as I do. Broaden your understanding.”

He motioned for the journalist to continue through the door. He obliged, but turned back, the confusion in his eyes growing oppressive.

The man, understanding, smiled as he slowly shut the door. “Millions believe and stake their life on Bitcoin, a thing that doesn’t exist.” The door was now inches from closing.

“Perhaps you should ask yourself… is that the only lie on which you’ve staked your life?”