About Me

I have mentioned more than once in my writing that human beings are the only species in the universe to have been given the fatal gift of self-awareness (which could also be described as a form of arrogance). We can gaze at the starry sky, understand the passage of time, and recognize our own existence—and precisely because of this, we are the only creatures who can consciously foresee that we will one day cease to be.

To counter the constant noise of what is called existential dread, we must believe in something that transcends our individual selves, something that can move beyond the boundaries of our fleeting lives. Thus, we create religion, procreate, and build civilizations. We tell stories and believe in them with all our hearts, simply to prove that we are part of a meaning greater than the individual, something that transcends our physical bodies.

My reason for writing is nothing more than this. It is no more noble. I am merely a person carving a mark on the side of a moving boat in the torrent of time, stubbornly trying to find a justification for my own existence. It matters not if no one ever reads it. The world is inherently absurd; it will not become one bit gentler because of your suffering.

No tragedy I could ever write can compare to the despairing hardships of the real world—people are suffering, children dying of hunger, thoughts strangled by an invisible hand, and those treated as non-human sacrificed in silence. Perhaps my motivation for writing is simply an inability to accept my own powerlessness, a yearning to seek a sliver of moral consolation from language.

But I truly cannot turn a blind eye. I at the very least still have the right to speak. I can still use language to bear witness. I am fed, clothed, and well-educated—but what about those who are not?—so what about those who do not have these privileges? When ash falls on the eyelids of a dead infant, how can we sit idly by? Yes, the power of an individual is laughably insignificant. But does that mean we can remain indifferent with a clear conscience? Since when did powerlessness become an excuse for apathy?

Those who turn a blind eye to the suffering of others will eventually meet their own calamity. I admit, I often pessimistically depict humanity as a base and cruel species, driven by a never-ending desire for transgression, our very own original sin. And yet, what chills me even more is a creeping, suffocating indifference—a neoliberal indifference, shaped by self-interest and moral numbness.

However, it is precisely because of this moral pessimism about human nature that I have always believed that people should be granted the right to happiness. You might call this a Messiah complex, but it is precisely because we are not perfect that we continuously create art and philosophy from the ashes of history. A person is never a static being, but is forever on a journey of becoming. Therefore, we cannot resort to a linear, complete myth of the self to narrate our own meaning.

And yet—in a world with no other shore and no final destination, what can we, as finite beings who rely on storytelling to sustain meaning, hold onto? The answer, perhaps, is life itself. The kind of life that is willing to shed tears, willing to love others. The moments of encounter with authentic sensuality—a Dionysian, primitive, and profound embrace: we embrace all that has been, all that is, and all that yet to come.

If we can learn to love beings who are different from us, we will not feel a sense of nihilism for having merely once-been in this world, nor will we be crushed by the weight of life's endless repetition. In this sense, life is an exploration of the fundamental elements of what makes us human: love, pain, loss, joy, growth, and decay—all of which intertwine in the long river of time to form the rich tapestry of human experience. All of this ultimately comes down to the questioning of human existence itself—and it is this very questioning that endows humanity with its profound significance.

Perhaps I will be misunderstood as someone who is pessimistic, demoralized, and obsessed with trauma, using it to criticize the world—and to some extent, that may be true. But what is more real is that I am deeply in love with all the possibilities of life, creation, knowledge, love, and beauty. This, you could say, is my sinthome in the Lacanian sense. My writing, my thoughts, and my creations are nothing more than my small response to this absurd world. It may be meaningless, but it is the entirety of what anchors me to this violent, absurd, tear-jerking, yet impossible-to-let-go-of world.

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