I've always been obsessed with dreams and illusions—breaking out of "reality," escaping time. I have a collection of clocks: mechanical, wristwatches, vintage with bells, hourglasses—pink, black, purple, blue—you name it.
But my mind lingers in one place, though time shifts around it. It all blurs together—childhood and the present—but always leans toward the past.
Paradoxically, my life has always been upside down, existing on a different axis. I was born a sad, melancholic being, with no desire for life. Yet as I grew older, that absence of desire turned into a passionate love for it. Unlike others, who are born with an innate lust for life that fades as they grow, I started with nothing and built it piece by piece.
I was born with a deep sadness within me—an attraction to suffering and pain. Maybe because my mother longed so much to rid herself of her sorrow that, in the end, she gave birth to it. It separated from her, yet a splinter of suffering still remained in her heart after bringing me into this world.
I thought I was my mother’s reincarnated pain. But I am also my father’s lust and darkness.
No wonder I was born on a foggy, cold morning—though I've always known I belong to the night, under a clear sky and moonlight.
I never liked the daytime—too noisy, too chaotic. I never liked spring or summer. Like I said, I wasn’t born with a lust for life. Until I realized I was born with a lust for death.
I loved the death of the sun, the death of the day, the death of nature, the death of the year, the death of joy.
I loved death so much that I wanted to be dead, too. And I wanted to bring it to those I loved.
I had an insatiable desire for death—it excited me, pumped the blood in my veins, oxymoronically made me feel alive.
Obsessed with the death of the present. The future.
I was the ripper, the destroyer, the sadist.
Until I realized there was light in me too—a quiet, persistent force of love and kindness. It had always been there, waiting for me to notice, even as I drowned in darkness.
But unlike most people, my Yin and Yang do not blend—they do not touch. They remain parallel.
That’s why it’s so hard for me to be completely true to myself around others without hiding some part of me—partially or completely.
I see myself as a kind of Bible.
Some people take me literally—judging me as entirely good or entirely bad. Others try to interpret me, but most misunderstand—searching too hard for meaning, when even I don’t know it myself.
