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Thinking that people even raise cats in comfort, I thought to myself, “Then they’ll probably feed me too.” But after spending an entire day on the street, completely invisible, I realized I had been foolish to believe in outward appearances.

I don’t have the luxury of being tolerant, for showing tolerance would mean betraying my inner self.

I feel as though I’m living, or will live, the opposite of what most people experience: while others grow older and gradually distance themselves from the restless adventures of their youth, finding calm, I seem to be moving in reverse.

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Just as a biologist observes the behavior of ants, I observe humans in the same way.

I feel the urge to form relationships with people only when I experience something that disturbs me even in my solitude.

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There is only one addiction I can't resist: my dependence on independence.

Relationships formed in formal settings are shallow decorations.

A shallow good is worse than a deep evil; I would rather be tyrannical and monstrous than ugly and mediocre.

Sometimes I feel like a plant that has grown out of excrement—the feces is humanity, and the sprouting branch is my inner world.

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Humans had no “authority” to reject my omnipotence, which means to go against God, because doing so would be equivalent to opposing God, and everyone can, but no one is able to oppose God—me.

When I’m among people, there isn't a single moment when I laugh; when I’m alone, there isn't a single moment when I don’t.

I am the sun glowing within ice.

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Sometimes, I feel happiness merely from eating; the act of existing itself becomes a source of joy. In that shrinking of the self, I rise.

When human influence is removed, nature immediately begins to renew itself, and when people return, it reverts to its former state. I am the same way.

I have neither now nor have I ever had an existence comfortable enough to still be capable of falling in love.

The most independent person is the least respectful.

The West's branded care of children in the Middle East.

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Young people are mired in the swamp of pleasure and amusement, while the elderly are stuck in the bog of religion and tradition. Why must the rule always be like this?

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The fact that a questioner becomes detached from worldly life actually shows that the world is an illusion.

Dramatist teenagers who are obsessed with love novels and romantic movies, naturally see me only through that lens when they hear about me.

People have never seen anyone like me before.

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Society keeps repeating the same things endlessly? Then I will constantly repeat my anti-society slogans.

The anger inside me never showed on the outside, and this didn’t lead to my fragmentation but to my calcification.

I destroyed my social naivety—that is, my inexperience and shyness—in favor of the dominance of my inner reality.

Nietzsche saved me from my life; Cioran saved me from Nietzsche—and from being saved.

The self is not the brain itself but what the brain produces.

The single-sentence refutation of the saying “a person is what they do” is this: feelings and actions are not the same.

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I carry an expectation that expects nothing.

Society instills two principal things in a person: guilt and shame.

Culture means homogeneity.

There is no such thing as a “conscious consumer,” because one who is conscious does not consume.

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I see CEOs and politicians as dirtier than murderers and rapists.

Whenever I see someone physically attractive, I think of it as a consequence of the capitalist culture; I immediately categorize them as “the other,” and thus I see the beautiful as ugly and the ugly as beautiful.

I respect the DPRK, but I love the USSR.

To have suffered deeply makes pain feel usual.

What gives rise to optimism is the absence or ineffectiveness of ideals and dreams, whereas the main source of pessimism is the passion and attachment to these ideals and dreams, and the frustration they bring when faced with an ordinary world.

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I am too alive for life. I must hide and preserve this vitality of mine by cloaking myself in a corpse.

It is not that I am unaware; I simply do not care.

I will never know what kind of comfort and security conformity provides, and people will never know what kind of relief and happiness solitude brings.

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Treating an old person is like desperately oiling a rusted machine that has become inoperable, just to keep it functioning a little longer.

I possess not calmness but solidity under pressure.

The existence of death makes life a temporary illusion—but a pleasant one, precisely because it's a deception.

People take my silence as their victory. Yet my silence is my own victory, always—even if I’m the only one who knows it.

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The person who will understand me may not have appeared yet. They may never appear. But this doesn’t mean that I am incomprehensible—it only means that I am not understood.

“This makes me question myself” is almost synonymous with “This insults me.”

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I am like an inverse graph to humans.

I am incapable of labeling any situation as a “problem.”

Something that is right may not necessarily be valid. It may even be forbidden—but that cannot mean it is wrong.

I endured for years what others could not bear for even an hour. And what was the result? That I became a philosopher of the inner world.

Those who act a role, of course, do not feel that they are acting—because mastery in acting consists precisely in making the role cease to be a role, and society is expert at that.

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The absence of intellectual curiosity in the youth.

A sociocultural thought on the rich and the poor.

Had the USSR won the Cold War, what would seem extraordinary today would not be the ubiquity of the ruble, but that of the dollar.

Even while grieving, I secretly feel joy.

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If I cannot recognize myself, then I am exactly that unrecognizable being. If I am fond of myself, I am fond of my dream.

Fate should not be accepted but celebrated.

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True nihilism is not believing even in nihilism itself.

I do not live in a nightmare, but in a flat, colorless machine.

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What truly destroys the individual is not the East but the West, not authoritarianism but liberalism.

I am not angry at humans—I feel sorry for them. I don't hate humanity; I pity it.

Culture of the "outsiders."

Digital usage that stems not from a desire for attention but from metaphysical hunger.

I prefer being patient over being tolerant.

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The reason I’m glad when I’m ill—or even when I’ve broken a part of my body—is that it means I won’t have to go to school, or at least might not have to.

To those sensitive to patterns, everything appears mechanical, because beneath everything lies a kind of loop.

I speak to silence, and it answers with a voice older than memory—a song composed of forgotten griefs and unclaimed joys.

Special people create their own special days.

"Hierarchy of needs."

Silence of the ignorant.

An automated family.

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To survive a harsh life, you must blur the world you see.

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In this society I am born into, people use words derived from English, sprinkles expressions of foreign origin into their speech, talks in the slang born from Western culture on social media—and despite that, they still call themselves nationalists.

If I say that I don’t believe in their religion and that I don’t support their culture, I’ll either be cursed at or lynched—I live in such a narrow-minded and ignorant country.

My feelings tell me that utopia is a dystopia, and dystopia is an utopia.

Everything I feel must take shape—either as a poem or as an aphorism. I do not know how to simply mourn.

Mathematics describes, but art reveals. Physics predicts, but philosophy wonders. The universe, in its rawest state, is not a formula but an experience. It is not an answer to be solved; it is a mystery to be felt.

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While people grieve and despair over the “problems” in their own lives, what has gnawed at me through sleepless nights with dread has been the nature of existence itself.

I ask myself why babies who are doomed to die within hours, born with irreversible complications, even come into the world.

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What others call “friends” feel like tourists in my mind.

My chronology is, as I think, clear: oppression leading to obedience, obedience leading to suffocation, suffocation leading to rebellion, rebellion leading to isolation, and isolation leading to transcendence.

To be an individual, one must be socially insignificant.

I do not even laugh for a reason, and isn’t this the very source of the most stubborn laughter?

Even if everything I owned were taken from me—if I were left friendless, penniless, homeless, scraping by on the streets—I would still carry a pride as hard as steel.

Pride and arrogance are always better than shyness and self-hate.

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If one wishes to save time, instead of reducing writing to abbreviations—which only creates a culture of slang—one should learn to write quickly.

Society tells a person who does not know themselves who they are, and because that person is unaware of themselves, their entire being takes shape around society—and thus they become dependent on it.

The way Westerners draw borders: a map and a ruler…

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Even though I have always been subjected to misunderstanding, disregard, and lovelessness, I have no kind of “proof” that society would accept.

Humans fail to see how they provoke the universe with their constant clamor—and worse, they feel no shame in it, persisting relentlessly. The only true god of the universe—silence—will not forgive humankind for this sin.

All this human noise assaults my mind.

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It does not matter how long one lives, nor how one lives.

Nausea, bloating, pain, and even bleeding should bring a certain joy, for what causes them is not the physical trauma or the illness itself, but the body’s response—a means of survival.

When I look at the Soviet Union—mocking the cheap, ostentatious Western way of life with their posters—and at North Korea, which banned slang and denim in the name of purification—I can’t help but smile.

My heart.

I am the staunchest supporter of the USSR: neither a communist nor a Bolshevik—just someone genuine who carries a heart beating fiercely for the motherland.

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The mark of being healthy is not sanity, but madness.

Happiness is “boring.”

I feel as though any human relationship I have is violating my inner world—bits to be weeded out.

I am a person who sees no personal god to pray to, who nonetheless feels a sacred pulse within all existence, and who regards the question of God’s existence as practically irrelevant.

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Can one imagine a weather condition more maddening than one where it’s hellishly hot, yet the sun is nowhere to be seen, and the entire sky is smothered with clouds?

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Every day, a mental cleansing takes place inside my head in three stages.

Those who say, “Are you ten years old to act so childishly?”—if I were to speak in their language, they are the ones who forever carry the mind of a ten-year-old.

Background of an institutional propaganda.

The fantasy of taking revenge on the web of self-honoring ignorance I had fallen into by hurling my bookshelf out the window in fury and ridding myself of all the books inside.

Living on the street would be physically more demanding but mentally easier for me.

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To survive, I stripped people of their humanity in my mind, and naturally I feel no empathy for them, because I think “a fly cannot suffer.”

A torture method as yet another allegory for my life.

How did I know I had become an adult mentally? By realizing that nothing others said about me could get under my skin anymore, because I now knew myself better than anyone ever could.

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Rainbow is the lost child of the rain.

If I do not become my own fanatic, I will become others’ slave.

I have not lost my humanity; I have annihilated it consciously.

The brain addresses itself as “my brain” because, being connected to the capsule called the body through networks, it mistakes itself not for an organ but for a “person.”

I am afraid. It is a terrifying kind of fear because it is dangerous. A dangerous fear, because beneath it, it secretly desires what it fears.

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No work has any value anymore, because creating has been made absurdly easy.

I am not very worried about the possibility that my writings might be stolen—after all, once it became possible to make an artificial intelligence write an entire page with just a few keystrokes, what is there left to steal?

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In contemporary society, what commands respect is no longer a “clean” past, but a “dirty” one, for it signifies “courage” and “self-assurance” in the eyes of ordinary people.

The "Western" and the "Eastern" types.