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Being “changeable” does not necessarily mean being open to views; most of the time, it means being defenseless to loss of self.

I had to talk not with my peers but with ghosts, because there was not a single living being around me as solitary—that is, as thoughtful—as I was.

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On rainy or snowy days, even though my outward self reflects the harsh and closed nature of the weather, my inner self still reflects its hidden paradise. That is, it softens; I grow as light as a feather.

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If children must be taught anything at all, it should be this: never learn what others try to teach you.

People love to posture with depth, saying things like “there are some rules in life…” as if life were their own creation and they knew everything about it.

Those swallowed by society will do anything to preserve this domesticated dependency, which they rename “being part of humanity.”

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Me versus school.

School is, for me, an existential threat.

In the struggle of existence I’ve learned one thing: in moments when I’m too overwhelmed, I “switch myself off” like pressing a button and wait for it to simply pass by.

People think they’re insulting someone by calling them “egoist,” and in doing so they show how unaware they are that this isn’t an insult but an entire philosophy.

My ability not to be swayed by any feeling is nothing more than this order: analysis first, then feeling.

I am inclined not to what is called “depression” but to what is called “psychosis.”

I feel a lot of admiration, passion, celebration, and awe, but I don’t think I can respect, worship, miss, or love anymore.

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My empathy is not reactive but reflexive. It is not emotional and human but rather cosmic and existential.

I imagine my body merging with someone else’s during sexual intercourse… nothing could sicken me more.

Since I have never escaped this cycle, everything else feels unreal, for I take it as the only reality.

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Social media trains people to believe every environment, every experience, should be reframed into something enjoyable, clickable, “positive.”

A story of lovelessness.

When I feel disappointment in love, I feel a secret sense of relief.

“Self-help” books prey on discontented people who feel disturbed by various but mainstream forms of suffering—for example, “meaninglessness,” “uselessness,” “loneliness,” and so on.

What does the solitary intelligent person do, seeing that fools are always loved and always have plenty of friends?

Most people need to be alone in order to question themselves, because when they have others, they reflexively interpret it as “so there is nothing wrong with me.”

I questioned what I was absorbing, tested it against my own instincts, and slowly let my perspective harden into something self-made rather than borrowed from mass society.

Letter to rain.

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Being a pessimist is not a pessimistic thing.

Even if a living being lives a thousand years, from the perspective beyond the narrow human perception of time, everything would seem tiny, and naturally, none of it would truly matter.

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A slow, long jailbreak from a kind of social cage.

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Why not “liberal-democratic freedom utopias” like Canada, Finland, or Switzerland, but the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea?

The sound of the television can be heard even from here. They’ve turned the volume all the way up. Not because they can’t hear the noise, but because they don’t want to hear the silence.

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What drives a person to suicide is a kind of hope.

A person who carries a broad perspective must, in order to preserve that breadth, be narrow-minded.

As long as I have food, water, and shelter, I suppose I can endure anything.

There is nothing at all in the grins people put on, especially to “make a good impression on the other side.” It is merely an emotionless muscle reflex.

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The emotions and thoughts of the overwhelming majority are always the same, because their responses are flat and linear.

I am nothing in particular, thus I can become anything I want.

I have the ability to create feeling out of nothingness.

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What difference is there between 22:00 and 22:05?

I do not want freedom but a different kind of captivity...

Missing you.

Music has the power to drive a person to suicide.

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Throughout my life I passed untouched through every place I entered. Just as I wanted.

Even my mere existence whispers: “Here is an alternative.” Yet I have never seen anyone able to discern and choose this hidden path.

Familiarity gives birth to endurance.

Dream of an illegal life in the depths of the forest.

A small body carrying a great mind will pay the penalty of sensing and seeing things “early.”

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There has not been even a single place or time in which I did not feel myself to be the only sane one among madmen.

I feel utterly overwhelmed. I’m thinking about whether or not to depart from Earth. What is to be done? One more aphorism into the void...

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Society colonizes their mind like a jinn possessing someone.

The person who takes others’ opinions seriously and contemplates them has not witnessed the rule of swamp and the law of wasteland underlying them.

It is possible for a person to express respect by refusing to stand.

My writings are not the whole of the puzzle but only its pieces. Only when all of them are read can a clear picture emerge—if it emerges at all.

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Whoever I address looks to me like monkeys with whom I am trying to communicate in vain, including all those “great minds.”

I am by no means a stranger to wild and disturbing thoughts.

The classroom window was open; I cannot calculate how often and how intensely I felt I could fly out through that window.

They looked straight into my eyes yet they did not see me.

By making even my very existence a myth and a philosophy, I forever banished from my presence those who do not know how to read these things—in other words, everyone.

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Y: “If you don’t talk to people, they won’t talk to you.” X:“If they are robots, yes—the machine automatically gives this result.”

The most sincere humanism is misanthropy.

If I had the ability to suspend my consciousness whenever I wanted, I would stay switched off all day and would only open myself in the dead of night, if I were to open at all.

Whenever any crisis occurs, even if it could kill me, my first reaction is not worry or rush but a sly and dangerous, adventure-seeking excitement that whispers, “this could change things at the root.”

The fact that sexuality has become so heavily in demand, this engineered obsession, is a human creation.

With physical solitude, music, and imagination, I can endure anything and anyone.

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I was at an unattainable height, which is precisely why they could not swallow me like the others.

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Hardly any expression or profession could be imagined as absurd and ridiculous as “philosophy teacher” or “professor of philosophy.”

I am not without self-confidence; I simply do not believe I can have any validity in the external world.

"Enlightenment" never comes from others, and cannot.

The same people cannot be expected to behave differently.

If I suddenly discharged the sewer inside me, it would only lead to being treated as mad.

When I look at ordinary people that are alien to ruminating, I see that the only existential angst they have is the possibility of falling into hell after death.

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What is difficult—indeed impossible—is for a being like me to take pleasure in being forced, from morning until night, to listen to the chatter of sports and tabloid gossip.

Those obsessed with the “ability to express oneself” have never actually experienced the deep conviction that one cannot truly be understood by anything outside oneself.

There is no space left to breathe, and because humans are everywhere, their presence has lost all value.

There is no love anymore. In its place, there are emotional games.

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I have always witnessed those who know less than me being treated as if they know more.

Toying with God and its worshippers.

People who have nearly internalized the defense of society and civilization as a duty, and who are not even worth talking about, are very numerous.

When I stepped into adulthood, the first thing I noticed was the intensity of normative values.

Y: “What is your crime?" X: "I have completely abolished what is ‘forbidden’ even to question."

The only thing that kept me alive was my imagination.

Dreams that feel more real than reality.

I carry a certainty: if I had absolute power in my hands, it would inevitably turn into what is defined as “the abuse of power.”

Because my brain hasn’t received any external stimuli other than noise for years, it invents its own stimuli.

Unless I tell them to turn the doorknob and pull it toward themselves to open it, they won’t even touch that door at all.

Doing nothing is better than doing something.

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There are three main forms of someone who has transcended their humanity: robot, monster, and mystic.

Only through tears does reality pass.

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Why would a recluse, alien to the conventional values of society, be sent to a conventional private school?

Daily cycle of war.

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The wind as a visitor.

I know that salvation has never been in humans. Even a bottle of alcohol is more helpful than speaking with people.

Everywhere I am only looking for those who are in a general state of dissatisfaction—without caring against what or in what way they are disillusioned.

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Even the claim that everything is subjective is, inevitably, itself subjective.

If something gives pleasure and is useful, it is false—that is, an illusion. If it gives pain and is not useful, it is true—that is, reality.

Democracies, in order “to protect democracy,” suspended the suspension of democracy, and thus destroyed democracy.

“Innocent” people are not so because they do not commit crimes, but because they cannot commit them.

If someone who has lived through extraordinary things still wants to have a place in society, the only way to do this is by presenting themselves as helpless.

The authorities would call my family only when I messed things up.

I would be freer in prison than “free” outside.

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I don’t search for “truth”; I host it inside me.

I want a presence that doesn't recoil when I arrive unkempt and barefoot, something or someone that does not flinch when I bring nothing but ruin and dust.

There is only the “thing.” Perhaps even that has withdrawn and, so that it won’t be noticed, has put in its place a substitute toy called “consciousness.”