Hear me?

Feel me?

My pain is black, my anger is red

My creation is colorful, filled with dread

With these colors, a castle I'll build

Life and luck aimed me, and I laugh

I laugh

Life

Life and

Luck

When will the pain end?

Destiny in chains

Enough?

Not enough?

I'm tough life rough

Don't bluff me life you stuff like fluff

Life

do you hear me?

Life

Lif

Li

L

Do you hear me?

Empty the world

dont tell me about justice

Life

Life is

Life is trap

Life is crap

Life do your feel me?

Absurd

Life is absurd

Wild life

wildlife

Read me

Did you feel?

Did you feel me?

Draw the line with my sword

Draw the line with my word

Line between me and life

Line is mine and mine

My design is raw

is war

Life see like trident my sword

Or word

Take breath my word beneath

Life

Lif

Li

L

Fate can be relentless. Even when you possess a rare combination of strength, endurance, talent, and discipline, fate can still turn entirely against you. Certain destinies feel this way—as if you are carrying a curse. While everyone else swims comfortably in a shallow pool, you are thrown into the open ocean with your hands and feet tied. To make it more absurd, those in the pool look at you and wonder why you are struggling. There is no justice in fate. It hands out cards at random, repeatedly proving that existence is inherently flawed—a reality only those living at extreme depths can truly comprehend, while those in the shallow end remain blind to it.

We search for meaning, yet life has no intrinsic purpose. We engage in things simply because we recognize this fundamental emptiness, creating manufactured meaning just to block out the void. If the human race were fully united, perhaps life would carry a genuine purpose. We wouldn't need to search for meaning, nor would we be consumed by anxiety about the future, ego, hatred, jealousy, or doubt. Yet, while humanity remains fractured by countries, religions, cities, and neighborhoods, it still has the audacity to call itself "intelligent." Looking down at animals while acting with such low consciousness is almost laughable.

This creates a profound paradox: Does fate divide us, or does human division corrupt fate?

We already possess more than enough wealth and resources on this planet to heal the wounded, feed the hungry, and fix these broken lives. Yet collective ego prevents it. It appears that fate originally handed humanity relatively simple tests. But as humans insisted on self-centeredness and pride, the heavy consequences of fate began to compound, spreading overwhelming burdens onto everyone. Had we passed the simpler trials from the beginning, fate would not have made our existence this agonizingly complex.

I’ve been here since I first opened my eyes. Bound hand and foot, I fell into this ocean. I hate this state of being. The water has turned to ice, its frost penetrating to my very marrow. I try to rise to the surface. The more I move, the more I sink; if I stay still, I sink all the same. With every sharp movement, the rope wrapped around my wrists cuts through my skin, gnawing at my hands and feet. The salty water burns my open, fresh wounds like fire.

Why, though? I didn’t deserve this. The crabs tried to grab me. They thought I was a crab. And I thought they were human. Can I even open my eyes? The bitter water pours between my eyelids, blinding my vision. I bite the rope; the bitter taste of the fibers numbs my tongue. But my teeth are not shark teeth. Just as I was about to rise to the surface of the water, the strength in my grip vanished. Down again, into the darkness I fell.

I have nothing beside me. There is no one. I am as lonely as God — if He exists. Blindfolded, bound hand and foot, I fight my own fate. To avoid dying, I fight my fate until I die.

Water doesn't get into my nose; I know how to hold my breath. But it’s nonsense, my nose is fed up with it too. Every time I rise for a gulp of air, my lungs burn, my strength drains, and I sink back to the bottom.

I don’t belong here. I didn’t deserve any of this. But the only thing I can do is get out of here alive.

The fish beside me think I'm a fish too, or perhaps a mermaid. Yet I don't belong here. I have lungs. Lungs that might reject me too, perhaps saying: there should have been gills in our place. Once again, I rise toward the surface to breathe.

There are four or five people in the nearby pool. They are looking at me. I can see the bright smiles in their eyes, every single tooth in their mouths. I see their zest for life, their merry mood. Right then, one of the people in the pool says:

— Let’s improve the conditions a bit more; turn up the water temperature.

They are playing ball with each other. Splashes, laughter... As if there is nothing else in the world.

Suddenly, one of them looks toward me and says:

— He still couldn't get out of there? Come on, how deep could it be? At most, it's two or three meters like ours...

I hear them.

— Stay strong, everything will be fine. God will help you.

Another says:

— As if what you're doing is any different? You're just like us. Look, we even have chlorine, whereas your water is clean.

Chlorine...

They sit in their two-meter comfort and preach to my abyss. They have the taste of chlorine in their mouths, yet they think they know the ocean.

They don't know that what they call a "great hardship" is merely a breath of air to me.

The moment they offer solace, the darkness beneath my feet grows a little deeper.

I still have to get out of here. I can no longer feel my hands or feet. My feelings are colder than this water.

I don't understand. I still can't comprehend why I am here.

This is the place of fish and aquatic creatures. Why does life make me swim? And bound hand and foot, at that...

Even if I were a mermaid, she wouldn't suffer this much either.

Just because I belong to the same species as those in the pool, does that make our levels equal?

I rise to the surface again. The whales around me do the same. But I am not a whale.

The word "fed up" isn't enough anymore. I need to create a new word of my own.

Frowning, blindfolded, bound hand and foot...

I feel my nerves shattered like the Berlin Wall.

Do I have breath left, or not?

I wonder if anyone else could ever fall into the situation I'm in?

I get tired — but I mustn't get tired.

I get fed up — but I mustn't get fed up.

If I let go of myself, I will be lost in this depth.

This isn't a two- or three-meter pool. Living while knowing this is a torture in itself.

The situation I fell into is meaningless. But I must get out.

This isn't living.

This is simply surviving.

If you were born different, you end up different.

No matter how much you want to be like everyone else,

If you remain the same and carry on,

Then you weren't created all that different to begin with.

Once I get out of here, I will cry out to the sky. Let whatever exists hear me.

The rope bleeds me. A shark could eat me. Falling into the ocean makes things harder, and the ropes prevent me from swimming. They wound me.

Body and soul, everything has merged into darkness.

And the ocean is so deep.

If I don't thrash around every second, I don't want to know what will happen.

Everything is a domino effect. Either my falling into the ocean started this domino, or those ropes did. It's the first domino striking the next. Everything is a chain reaction. And we name it "destiny."

One unfortunate event knocks down the rest of the tiles.

Meanwhile, the dominos of those in the pool are neat. Lined up, untouched.

I hate this situation.

I'm still amazed that I can breathe — how come?

It's as if you're told: die, but keep breathing.

If you put them here, they would have been carcasses deep down long ago.

They would be in the bellies of the fish, perhaps.

I'm sick of feeling like I'm in a place where I don't belong.

I'm like a shark in the desert.

What would those in the pool know?

What is this? What should we call it?

They will say:

— There is justice!

Of course they will say that. Because their eyes are smiling.

What do they know of ropes? What is depth? What is it like to have a shark hunting you? What is bleeding, what is drowning? What is going in blind?

It is so suffocating that I create another world in my mind.

I still have to get out of this situation, no matter how inescapable it seems.

The only equality, the only justice that life will grant us along with those in the pool, is death.

Though even our death isn't fair, I think.

One of those in the pool says:

— He seems to have motivation. He doesn't want to get out, he's still dancing, trying to be a mermaid.

Right as he says this, he throws the ball to his friend.

His friend laughs and says:

— Why is he like that? It's as if the burden of the whole world is on the one in the ocean. Ah, if he had fallen into the pool with us, we couldn't have stayed with him.

Sometimes I forget that I'm human.

I feel like gills are going to sprout on me.

What can I say to this situation here?

Where is justice?

Where is God?

I reach the surface, only to be drained of strength and sink back down again.

No matter how good a swimmer I am, those in the pool are worse swimmers than me, yet they laugh at me.

A mental breakdown...

To me, this concept is smaller than a microbe on an ant.

They come and diagnose me:

— Your mind is damaged.

A damaged mind is a term used by those sitting in two-meter comfort.

Here, I am fighting the battle between existence and non-existence, water and air, rope and skin.

And they call this slaughter a "psychological problem."

Your tiny terms don't even register beside my hatred in this ocean.

My mind isn't broken.

I am simply in the depths of reality.

One from the pool approaches the ocean and says:

— Why haven't you gotten out of there yet? Maybe you're not a good swimmer? Look, if we were in your place, we would have gotten out long ago. Don't be lazy!

Then he adds:

— Our pool was two meters too; we thought it was three meters. The water is chlorinated, so almost all odds are stacked against us.

I think life is worse than hell.

In hell, at least the wicked burn. In life, it doesn't matter who burns.

I'm in the same situation again.

I can't do anything.

For days, I've been tired, hungry, sleep-deprived...

But I must not sink.

What was the point of making living so difficult?

It's as if I committed grave sins.

Sometimes I open my eyes: the sharp cries of seagulls in the sky, those in the pool watching me, fish below, the sun above...

Why am I at the intersection of all these?

I'm tired of struggling.

Life never gets tired of wearing me down.

The laughter of those in the pool echoes like a rumble underwater.

There is no one to hear me but myself.

Even if they heard, they wouldn't understand.

They talk to me about justice, about "going with the flow."

One says:

— The arrows are pointed at me.

He hasn't even seen an arrow...

Even if it were visible, his arrow was directed at someone else.

What kind of ignorance is this?

What kind of empathy is this?

How did humans even invent the word "empathy"?

How did they invent something that doesn't exist?

I hear that voice again:

— Just go with the flow...

The moment I let go, I'll go straight to the bottom.

How can I let go? I'm not in shallow water.

How am I supposed to have fun in this situation?

For those in the pool, "going with the flow" means staying effortlessly afloat on the surface.

For me, it means sinking to the bottom and drowning.

From their two-meter safety, they lecture me on freedom.

Their minds are so narrow that they don't even grasp the difference between a current and an ocean.

Am I swimming, or am I thrashing?

I can't even say "I'm breathing," yet somehow I want to see success.

Even if I can't open my eyes...

Right now, my success is staying alive.

Staying alive is hard for me.

Life has placed me on such a path that the sole target must be survival.

After all, we only come to life once.

Why should life put you in such a state that your only purpose becomes surviving?

Why this condition?

Why this torment?

I can't restart life with a different script.

My brain is burning now.

My surroundings are filled with water.

I can see that life is meaningless.

How could those in the pool understand?

There's too big a gap between us — as vast as the distance between universes.

I've become a philosopher now, not a swimmer.

I'm disgusted by life itself, yet even knowing how filthy life is, for some reason, I still want to live.

If a shark looked at me, it would think I was going to eat it.

Maybe that's why it doesn't come near.

While those in the pool look at me and laugh:

— We had fun, we enjoyed ourselves... Hasn't this guy gotten tired yet? He's still dancing or romanticizing depression, I don't get it. It's my first time seeing someone like this. I think he can't control himself!

They burst into a deep laugh.

They think managing comfort is "controlling oneself."

They don't know that surviving in ropes at the bottom of the ocean is the ultimate control in the universe.

Even a shark stays away, terrified of the hatred inside me, yet they lecture me on willpower from a chlorinated pool.

Is the fate that brought me to this state truly the same as the fate that brought them to theirs?

Or is what they call "destiny" just a fake name invented by the privileged to insure their own comfort?

My destiny is the abyss beneath my feet, the ropes slicing through the skin on my wrists.

Their destiny is temperature-controlled, two-meter chlorinated water.

The same God, the same universe, the same name...

Yet two separate hells.

If the thing that put us in this state is the same destiny, then this destiny is the most hypocritical screenwriter in the universe.

No.

It's not the same.

Their destiny is an amusement park.

My destiny is a war for survival.

Are we in the same situation just because we're both in water?

I gnaw at the rope with my teeth. The compressed fibers tear my palate, filling my mouth with the taste of blood. It's as if my teeth are a saw.

But no, they're not a saw.

My brain is about to bleed from rage.

I've been chewing on the rope ever since I fell here, and now it's having an effect.

"Hate" is too mild a word; this condition is worse than hell.

If I were sent to hell, it would be better than this.

There is no one beside me to help. Even if there were, they would sink, I'm sure. Or they would do nothing.

Salt enters my eyes again. I can't open them.

I gnaw blindly, like a rodent.

I must rise to the top, otherwise I'll drown.

But I gnawed on the rope so much that I'm exhausted.

Then let me bite through the rope until the end. So my hands are freed. I can rise up using less energy.

That's the most logical thing.

I thought the thing below was a shark.

It was just a fish.

My heart stopped for a second.

I don't know how I managed to open my eyes.

The rope is coming undone.

It's now or never.

I'm starting to drown, it seems.

If I can just endure a little longer...

And yes!

The ropes loosened.

The fibers dangling from my wrists became free.

It's as if I'm about to say "God helped," but after all this chaos, saying that is impossible for me.

Yes!

Upward.

A little higher.

I made it out!

I took a deep breath. The cold air tore through my lungs.

Now only the ropes on my feet remain. At least I'm on the surface of the water.

However, the wind blowing against me intensified. The sea foam crashing into my face closed my eyes, and I was pushed quite far back.

Even if those in the pool shouted, I wouldn't hear them anymore.

I don't even feel sadness because of this.

Because I have no feelings left.

I've even forgotten my own name.

I just swim — like a fish, but on the surface.

I want someone to pull me out of this disgusting situation with their hands.

Those in the pool say:

— It seems he's moving away from here. It makes no sense; he probably wants to become shark bait.

Seaweed entangles my feet. Tangled strands squeeze my ankles.

It seems I can't move my leg, and I'm sinking down.

I am below the surface.

I am getting tired.

In every way.

How many times can a person's fate be like this?

What is this?

What name should we give it?

Which theory does it fit?

I am fed up.

Destiny is not fed up.

If I vomited my hatred, the entire galaxy would disappear, and they'd name it a "volcanic eruption."

My eyes have become sharper than an eagle's, my heart harder than stone.

I move forward — upward and ahead.

The fish ate the seaweed on my foot.

I saw the shark!

After eating the seaweed, the ordinary fish fled. The shark is right behind them.

If it weren't for the shark, the fish would have eaten my foot.

If it weren't for the fish, the shark would have eaten me.

I covered the path faster than ever before.

Looking straight ahead.

Even though hope is invisible...

Those in the pool are talking again:

— He's coming forward now. I think this guy has mental issues. One moment backward, the next forward... He has motivation, this guy. In the ocean, everything depends on willpower. If his willpower were strong, he'd already be on land.

My hands are giving out.

My foot is covered in blood from the rope.

I must untie my foot, but how?

The oncoming wind pushes me backward.

Maybe the shark will eat me now anyway.

I hate this.

What else can I say?

With what words can I express it?

Enough already.

Now I just want to become shark bait!

Yet, on the one hand, to live...

Life...

What is this?

What kind of torment is this?

I don't even believe there is a hell in the afterlife.

If angels were to lift me out of here, maybe then I'd believe.

I'm getting sick of it now.

Yet I move forward.

Even as the wind pushes me back, I look ahead.

Suddenly, I saw a boat on the right side.

I must reach it.

Yes, it's a bit far, but I must reach it.

Only this way can I reach land. It's impossible to go this distance without a boat.

My foot is bleeding.

I see blood mixing into the water. A red trail opens up on the sea.

I've lost quite a lot of blood.

I'm approaching the boat, but I haven't reached it yet.

The boatman doesn't see me.

He's enjoying the sun, enjoying life.

His life and my life...

Are different.

My neck is numb, my eyes are bloodshot, I'm hungry, half-thirsted, furious at life.

No matter how perfectly I express myself, my life cannot be expressed.

If it weren't for the trail of my blood, maybe he wouldn't even look in this direction.

Maybe the fish had pierced my foot.

I don't know.

The boatman came to the spot where I was before the wind blew — the part with the blood trail, the shark, and the fish.

My path is changing now.

Not to the right, but straight ahead I must swim.

My destination has come closer.

I swim with sharp, weary eyes clinging onto life.

I struggle.

My invisible hope becomes visible.

I approached the wooden boat.

But suddenly, silence fell.

It was as if life stood still.

I didn't understand what happened.

I advanced.

It was like the calm before the storm, yet there was no storm in sight.

I'm getting closer to the boat.

The boatman changing his course made my job easier.

Just as I was about to jump into the boat...

The shark hunted the boatman.

The boat lurked violently.

Before my eyes, warm, dark blood spilled into the water.

This was real blood.

I thought the world stopped; an army rushed upon me.

It froze, my already frozen self.

My organs tangled together.

Salt droplets accumulated in my eyes flowed down.

Numbed as I was, even my neck pain stopped.

The color of the sea mixed with blood.

Without wasting time, I climbed into the boat.

I didn't feel myself getting in; it was as if my life remained in that shark scene.

When the damp, hard wood of the boat touched the soles of my feet, my bones ached.

I untied the rope on my foot.

I used the items in the boat.

I wiped the blood off my hands and feet.

I cleaned my torn flesh and wrapped it with an old bandage.

After applying the medicine, I felt like I was going to faint.

What did I just experience?

Did that boatman deserve this?

Did I deserve to witness all this?

I filled my empty stomach with food.

The food was fish.

I'd like to say "delicious," but I can't taste anything.

After this event, I steered the boat forward.

But the wind grew even fiercer and carried me backward.

Even though I was able to get close to dry land.

Which chain of life is this?

Let the birds above tell me.

The moon above.

Those in the pool in front of me.

The God I cannot see.

To my rear left, there is an island.

If I don't go there, the wind will carry me to the deepest, most shark-infested part of the ocean.

My life would be ruined.

The wind is pushing me backward anyway.

If I turn the helm to the left, I'll reach the small island.

If I don't land on the island and sleep, I'll die of exhaustion.

The wind became so severe that the boat moved backward very fast.

I turned it left just in time.

The boat struck the island hard.

The splintering sound of wood was heard.

Some parts broke.

I threw myself onto an uninhabited part of the island and fell asleep.

Those in the pool were talking again:

— This guy was supposedly coming here by boat. What happened, did he change his mind? This guy must be a traveler. We suffer every day in the chlorine of this pool, while this guy builds a boat in a beautiful ocean and goes to an island for comfort. He must be on a conquest. I've never seen a man as happy as him. Here we change the temperature according to the weather, and because the depth is three meters, we can't constantly let ourselves go.

It seems I slept for two days.

I'm hungry again.

I picked some sour fruits from the tree. Their juice burned my dry throat.

I had done the same when I first came here.

Yeah...

Very interesting.

Was life pre-written, or am I here because domino tiles knocked into each other?

My willpower is too grand compared to fate.

When I reached the boat, I thought it was a good thing.

But another life was lost.

My salvation was paid for with someone else's life.

Now, is life fair, or quite the opposite?

Was it his destiny, or a coincidence?

Or did the shark stalk and attack him because of my blood?

Then why not me?

Was my reaching the island fate, or the strength of my will?

It resembles a domino effect, too.

When I opened the bag, I found a tooth among the boatman's belongings.

It was smaller than a shark's tooth, but it didn't look like an ordinary fish tooth either.

After eating the fruits, I walked forward.

I see nothing here.

I don't know if there are humans or wild animals.

But this place isn't that big. The trees just make it look large.

If the shark incident hadn't happened, maybe everything would be fine.

I don't know.

Maybe later the shark would have eaten both of us together.

Or maybe not.

I'm still uneasy.

I feel like some wild animal could eat me right now.

Now there is silence.

I constantly look left and right.

The damp grass on the ground, the motionless leaves on the trees, my shattered nervous system, my eyes that remain tired even after sleeping...

Are these all the work of the same world?

Why is everything so difficult?

There was a man in front of me.

Perhaps he was the one who planted these trees.

I said to him:

— Are you a permanent resident of this island?

The islander turned his head and said:

— Yes. I expanded the trees here myself, and I engage in fishing.

His tone was gentle.

His voice felt like a cool breeze to a person on a dry island.

He was very calm.

His nervous system was intact.

He looked like an angel.

When he looked at me, he could read me, but I didn't tell him what I had been through.

If I did, I would wear out both myself and him until evening.

We walked.

I could feel the soil sinking beneath my feet.

I told him I was a boatman.

He said to me:

— Boatmen in this ocean mostly engage in fishing. Because the only source of food is in the ocean, apart from the island.

I nodded in agreement.

— Yes.

Then I remembered.

That tooth.

Resembling a shark's, but small.

I showed the tooth to him.

The islander looked at it and said:

— Why, this belongs to a baby shark! If a shark didn't hunt you, God has protected you. Enjoy yourself!

When I heard this, my head spun.

I felt as if the stars in the sky were crashing down on me.

I felt like nails were being driven into me.

I wanted to create a world inside myself and step into it.

I wanted my soul to enter the tree.

Or become a bird and fly above the clouds.

Wow...

Now, had the shark come because of my blood, or because the boatman had killed its pup and it hunted him in return?

Or was it hungry?

Are these coincidences, or dominos?

And yet the islander tells me:

"God saved you."

But God didn't save the boatman!

Nothing...

Maybe God allowed the shark?

I just want to close my eyes now and never wake up.

Thoughts are eating me from the inside, like piranhas.

My thoughts aren't just inside me anymore.

Everywhere I look has become my thought.

I didn't embarrass the islander by telling him the real story.

We walked around the island.

There was no one else on the island besides him.

He had a small house.

There were crabs too.

And I was a bridge between my thoughts and the real world.

When we reached the edge of the island, I watched the ocean waves.

The water hit the shore and foamed.

There was no problem with the ocean itself.

Whoever threw me into the ocean — the problem lay with them.

We didn't know the answer to this question.

I needed to sleep now, but thoughts would creep into my dreams.

I looked around.

It's quiet.

But there is a concert inside my brain.

There is no switch to turn it off.

Then I said:

— Should I perhaps thank God that I'm here?

But isn't the God I thank the same as the boatman's God?

Thoughts were piercing through me now.

Just like I was piercing the rope.

I fell asleep.

I saw nothing in my dream.

I woke up.

The islander wasn't there.

I looked around, searched for him.

Then I saw him preparing to fish with a rod.

Looking at him, I felt like a shark would pop up and eat him.

I walked up to him and said:

— You know there are sharks in this part of the ocean, right?

The islander turned and looked straight into my eyes.

With a smile, he said:

— I know. But my fishing rod isn't for sharks, it's for ordinary fish. For food.

I understood him.

However, the fact that the actual boatman was eaten while in his boat means it could happen while sitting on the edge of the island too.

I couldn't say this to him.

Then I thought:

Perhaps what will happen, will happen.

But no matter how it happens, isn't everything up to us?

Gradually, paradoxical thoughts were suffocating me.

I had to leave this island now and reach that big mainland belonging to those in the pool.

That had been my intention from the start anyway.

I miss something...

Though I don't know what for.

To stay alive and live?

Or to feel happy?

After all this, will I even feel happy? I don't even know that.

The fact that so many questions remain unanswered feels like it will make me lose my mind.

I spoke with the islander.

He turned his head again and looked at me.

I said:

— Could you help me make a boat out of the wood from these trees?

I was going to say that.

Then I remembered I had told him I was a boatman.

He would get suspicious.

So I said myself:

— If you have an axe, I'll chop the trees.

He nodded in agreement.

He was so focused on fishing that I could feel his attention wasn't scattered.

I took the axe.

I began cutting down the trees.

The trees were very hard.

With every blow, the axe kicked back.

I chose non-fruiting trees so the islander could keep his fruits.

I struck the tree with such force, as if the unanswered questions in my mind were embedding themselves into the wood.

The scent of the bark splitting open spread around.

I poured all my energy into chopping wood.

Even though this calmed me down, thoughts were still in my mind.

But now I was looking at my thoughts like a person looking into an aquarium.

The fish were my thoughts.

I started crafting planks from the logs.

The islander had caught fish.

He was going to cook them.

After putting them on to cook, he helped me.

A dialogue started.

I asked:

— Does being here make you happy? I mean, the island is very small. Don't you get bored of walking the same place?

He looked straight into my eyes with a smile.

— If there were things on this island I didn't like, if it didn't suit my soul, then yes, it would be as you say. I have changed several islands before this one. All of them were more or less the size of this island. But it's not about the size of the island. It's about whether that island has a good effect on me. The quietness, the absence of other islanders, having the trees and fruits I love... It's possible you don't like your territory and move to another, like me. I changed more than five islands. Then I saw that what matters is the island's suitability for you. For example, because I loved certain trees, I increased their number. The island is no longer just a regular island; it resembles a fruit island. So in short, if I hadn't found this place, maybe I would have changed islands for the rest of my life and then said that this life didn't suit me. Yet there is very little difference between the islands. What matters is where you can express yourself. That's what life is.

What he said turned on a light in my head.

Even if my thoughts weren't like that, this island wasn't for me.

For the islander, this was a suitable place.

As for me, I needed the big land — the territory I wanted to reach from the beginning.

If you placed the islander on the big land I wanted to go to, I'm sure he couldn't express himself there.

Rather, the land wouldn't be able to express him.

While talking, we built a boat out of wood.

Even better than the previous one.

This island was suffocating me.

After a while, no matter how much you hold yourself back, no matter if you say "I won't get bored," it's impossible.

I likened this to my situation in the ocean.

It was just a softer version of it.

I had even said it before: a shark and a desert — the two are contradictory to each other.

And that's how I felt.

Oh world, why do you create us so complex?

We don't even know why we exist.

I looked at the wooden boat.

Then I looked at myself from the outside.

Then at the islander.

I thanked him and gave him the tooth left over from the baby shark as a gift.

Then I set out on my journey.

As the distance grew, the island shrank.

The islander was still waving his hand.

Saying goodbye.

It felt as though the light in my eyes was gone.

No matter how hard I struggled, I had left my feelings far behind.

There seems to be no answer to the question "why?" in the world.

Even if an answer is given, they say "it had to be."

Yet you still ask "why?" again.

This goes on infinitely:

Question.

Answer.

Question.

Answer.

Yet the question is the same, and so is the answer.

Feelings, however, are not the same.

The light in my eyes is not the same.

My mental state is not the same.

If the question and answer will remain the same, why do these change?

Of course, how could those in the pool understand this?

It's impossible.

Even if their capacity for empathy were high...

In this world, the word "empathy" is far too small a word.

Life is flawed.

In human beings, in everything we speak of, there is a void in life.

In truth, only those heading toward that void would know this.

And now he sees everything without illusions.

There was almost no wind.

The weather was fine.

Yet I felt suffocated in the boat.

I now want to go flying.

My patience had departed along with these experiences.

I want to rest, but I can't.

I feel as though I have no brakes.

My brain still doesn't understand that the danger has passed.

It cannot exit danger mode.

I want to teleport.

Every second feels like a year.

My exhaustion drips from my eyes.

I wonder, what is the probability of a shark appearing and eating me?

If it eats me, let it eat me.

It's not even interesting anymore.

Whatever happens, will happen.

I'm doing my best.

Even if fate is against me, calling my willpower and that of those in the pool the same, talking about sharing the same destiny, is as absurd as it gets.

Those in the pool are talking again:

— Here comes a boat again. The same guy again. This guy is so boring. Why does he do this? What's his goal? As if we don't have willpower? We're all swimming. We're very similar people after all. God creates us all equal: gives us two hands, two arms.

Water came from below.

Through the cracks in the planks, water welled up and spread across my feet.

The boat was punctured.

I had nothing in my hand to repair the hole.

The boat was going to sink.

Looking ahead, I jumped once again.

Cold water enveloped my body in an instant.

When will these end?

Should I call this life now?

What is this, really?

Why are all weapons pointed at me?

Let this torment end already.

There is no such thing called "hope."

I am simply doing what I have to do.

There is neither hope nor enthusiasm.

If someone tells me "you have motivation," even the purest angels would spit in their face.

I want to paint the world with my hatred.

Even if I reach the big land, I know it won't bring me peace.

The brain has no brakes left.

I don't even feel sleep.

Meanings have gone out of commission.

No boundaries remain.

Am I truly human?

I am someone living through too much torment for a human being.

Life brings me to death, yet I am still running away from it.

Even without a desire to live...

What should we call this?

I simply have to do it.

There is no "why."

In this world, the question "why?" is as invisible as empathy.

Rope marks remain on my hands and feet.

The struggle marks of my life.

How long must I thrash about?

Life seems to be an endless loop of pain for me.

I say "enough already," but I have no choice other than to move.

However heavy fate is, the willpower to live must be just as strong.

I don't know if I'm a swimmer, a philosopher, or both.

I hear the sounds of the birds above.

Can we somehow switch places with them, perhaps?

Maybe one could become the tree on the island?

Or the ocean itself?

I don't know.

Even if I want to know, I feel myself inside a game.

So where is life?

I want a red carpet rolled out when I reach land.

I want those in the pool to play music.

I want life to be interesting.

Let the reward for all this effort not be merely surviving.

Because my effort is greater than just surviving in life.

I don't want to look back.

If I don't look at my past, maybe it won't look at me either.

I don't want to question anymore.

Yet my brain questions independently of me.

If I could just reach land...

I don't even know what I'll do when I get there.

Nothing comes to my mind about it.

My entire goal is simply to reach land.

To reach it.

Let my foot touch the ground already.

Let it be worth all this effort.

Looking at it this way, I'm living right now too...

A whirlpool pulled me down.

My soul left my body.

The water, spinning rapidly, dragged me to the bottom.

It was like a small storm.

I went down.

It felt as though it was meant to be this way.

I don't pay mind to it.

I'm in such a numb state...

I'm still trying to rise up.

How many times have I used the same words...

You can't even feel thirsty anymore, or your heart would burst.

I rise up.

As if nothing happened.

Though what's left that hasn't happened?

The fish around me are witnesses to my suffering.

Witnesses, meaning...

They don't care about me at all.

If anyone cares besides me, it's me again.

I want to become something else.

There is dying.

There is living.

Whatever the third thing is — let me be that.

Life, thank you for making me say this.

I rise up.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Those in the pool:

— This guy seems to be going looking for jewels. What happened to your boat? Fine, we'll see plenty more of his cloning. It's like we're in a circus.

I'm still rising up.

I look around me.

Fish, seaweed, and me.

We have no connection with one another.

Do fish see too, I wonder?

Are they happy?

If I could talk, I'd speak to them.

Maybe they're smarter than those in the pool.

Finally, I emerge.

Just a little left...

I made it out.

Yes.

Now I need to move forward.

I go, but only by myself.

Nothing left of me except myself.

The fish ate my feelings, or they fell from my pocket, or they never existed at all.

I am reaching land this time.

Let nothing pull me back anymore.

Let me just reach it.

That's enough for me.

Here it is...

I reached it.

My legs shook.

I take a deep sigh.

But I need to breathe deeper.

I'm losing my breath.

I just need to lie down.

I'm tired.

Those in the pool:

— Now this guy is resting, as if he wasn't having fun moments ago. He thinks he's seen more hardship than us, and now he's resting. On the ground, no less.

I sleep.

I don't remember what I saw in my dream.

I stood up.

Those in the pool haven't come yet, it seems.

I move forward.

It's just a dirt road.

Stones rustle beneath my feet.

I feel an emptiness.

There are stairs ahead.

To go up.

But first, I must look at the sky.

I say:

— God, was it worth all this suffering just to stay alive? Those in the pool live too. Why was my right to live made so difficult?

I said it, turned, and walked away.

What else can I do?

As always, I push forward.

I climb the stairs.

Yet I feel like I'm thrashing around again.

Every step was like a struggle.

When I climbed up, I saw people.

They scrutinized me with knitted brows.

As if there was something wrong with me.

Or as if I were going to eat them.

Was all that struggle just for this?

I moved forward.

On the right side were those from the pool.

They were heading toward the pool.

As for me, I didn't go too far.

These people aren't interesting to me.

Yet I watched them.

They were talking to each other.

They didn't see me.

They were passing the ball to one another.

As I watched them, someone to my right looked at me.

Just like the other people.

Maybe this man thought I was someone who couldn't swim in the pool, sank, and barely made it out.

Yet he doesn't know I was in the ocean.

I didn't have the patience to talk to him either.

In the pool, there are no ropes, no abyss.

No one is being torn apart nearby.

Fish aren't trying to eat your leg.

You adjust the temperature yourself.

There is chlorine.

There are no whirlpools.

Now how do I explain these to this man?

He wouldn't even have the patience to listen.

Nor do I care.

Those in the pool:

— This guy seems to have vanished. He's gone, maybe to his home.

One of them said:

— I'm sick of the pool, I'm going to the ocean. If that lost guy made it to land, won't I? Don't make me laugh!

Those in the pool agreed.

The stubborn one threw himself into the ocean.

He went as deep as he knew how.

Then I saw his hands were up in the air.

What was this man trying to do?

He thought it was a pool, it seems.

And there it is.

He has already sunk.

No matter how much the remaining pool-goers called for help, it was no use.

Interesting.

When one of their friends sinks, they only call out.

Does empathy only apply in friendship?

Their friends were even more disgusting.

Another tragedy unfolded right before my eyes.

In front of me, you could say, though it was quite far from me.

People around me watched this scene as well.

One said:

— Poor guy. He wanted to swim, but he drowned. And he just wanted to have fun.

Another:

— I think God will save him. He hasn't drowned; he's just swimming into the deep. Maybe he found something.

Someone else said:

— If I knew he'd make it out alive, I'd throw a party for him myself.

I'm truly surprised they say these things.

As if it wasn't me who was in a far more painful state for days.

Fine.

There is no second person who knows me better than myself.

If I told those beside me what happened to me, they'd laugh.

How could they believe it?

Here are the people.

Each with a different opinion.

I am moving away from here.

It's not interesting anymore.

I want to say things will be better.

But I only want to.

I cannot say it.

Where will I go by walking away, though?

I want there to be a cosmic horse.

Let me mount it.

Let the horse have wings.

Let it carry me away flying.

I want to become the very house in front of me on the ground.

Neither hearing people, nor saying anything myself.

Or go to the pool.

Best of all...

I want to say it.

But this tragedy has occurred.

It wouldn't be right to go to the pool and rest.

What should I become then?

Let reality tear open.

Let a portal open.

Let me enter it.

Let the winged horse take me somewhere else.

In the ocean, it was a matter of life and death.

What about dry land?

Fine, we are alive.

Why didn't I stay on the island then?

Don't I fit here?

As if this place isn't suitable for me.

Maybe if I were here from the beginning, I would fit?

That is uncertain too.

My desire to be happy transcends the world.

It reaches the stars.

How arrogant can a person be to want to do what you did, go, and lose their life?

You, who fit into the pool.

You even had friends.

What greed, what need to prove oneself was this feeling?

I want portals to open layer by layer.

Let me enter inside.

Let the winged horse carry me away.

I cannot stand still here.

Yet I must stand.

Because I'm living, I can't even live.

People look at the man who threw himself into the ocean by choice.

Yet I was like that out of necessity.

No one saw.

How does that happen?

I am sick of repeating every word.

I hate it.

Why did I get fed up?

I am still saying it.

I even need to create a new word.

I've even said this to myself.

Where do I fit?

I've said this too.

My brain broke down enough to repeat the same words.

Yet there is no difference left between the ocean and here for me.

I feel like I fell from one ocean into another.

There is a place no one has traveled to.

Let's go there.

Cells are warring in my brain.

An internal war in the form of a dragon is going on.

When I emerge from my inside to the outside, what are these people?

I went forward and sat in a cafe.

Someone my age in the cafe, with smiling eyes, said to me:

— We're going to the horse races. Want to come?

I stood there like someone with no light left in their eyes, detached from life.

I was like that anyway.

If I say "yes," I'll go sit at the horse race and do nothing.

Superficial things aren't interesting to me.

I get bored.

I'll dive into my own world and question my life.

If I say "no," what will I do?

Well...

These paradoxes are my life now.

I cannot think superficially.

When the person beside me made this offer, I felt as if I were above the world.

Someone pulls me down with a rope.

Yet I don't budge from my spot.

Being this deep...

I don't know.

Did the depth of the ocean transfer to me, or what?

I want to float in the air.

Let me be a leaf flying in the sky.

Or a meadow.

Maybe then I could call it life.

No?

No matter how much I speak, it has no effect.

Let someone come and pick me up.

But where to?

Where from here?

Is there a place that could express me?

Where its trees, nature, people, or other conscious beings exist.

Understanding.

Comprehending.

Maybe there is.

I don't know.

Then why wasn't I born there?

If that place doesn't exist, why has my life been so deep?

I looked at the person who made the offer.

— Thank you for your kindness, — I said.

He smiled.

— Alright.

He said and left.

I looked around me.

People laugh, talk, drink the ordinary beverages before them.

I am flowing through life.

Where to, though?

Into the void?

Or into something else entirely?

I don't know.

I'm so frozen, as if...

Bring a huge frame, bigger than Earth, maybe I'll fit.

The temperature inside me is minus eighty.

Maybe I'm in a dream?

Maybe it's a hallucination?

What am I seeing?

Is it definitely reality?

If you aren't joyful, if you don't throw yourself into life, the problem isn't me, it's life.

Don't talk to me about interest.

Are we definitely a race?

The clouds will look at me and weep.

My willpower isn't iron; it's diamond.

That's why I'm here.

My destiny is cruel to me.

Yet I am even crueler to myself.

There is no stopping for me.

People are like fish, as if...

What difference is there from those in the ocean?

Sitting at this table, I feel like a burden.

My head has taken a pause, as if...

I left the cafe.

I felt like slamming the door hard.

Yet I closed it gently.

I took two steps forward.

I looked around.

Two-legged fish again.

Is there anyone calling me to live?

Yes.

My foot stepped on the ground.

The sun is there.

The parrot on the shoulder of the person passing by is there.

The brown-toothed, charming horse is there.

The non-fruiting tree to my right, as well.

If my brain had a non-stop race, I'd be the champion.

I was walking.

Far from the ocean.

I couldn't eat much food at the cafe.

A little pasta.

Not delicious, though.

The fruit on the island was better.

I was full.

My soul wasn't full, though.

If it were up to me, I'd eat the whole cafe.

My foot tripped.

I fell to the ground.

My hand got scratched.

Blood came out.

In front of me, I saw a wooden boat.

Or did I?

It was just wood.

Everything reminds me of the boatman.

Blood.

Shark.

Who is good?

Me?

I went a little further forward.

One is talking to the person next to him.

One is looking at the sky.

One is pondering.

One senses.

One has his head down.

One is laughing loudly.

If he laughs a bit more, the glass will shatter.

My heart — I don't know if it's glass or stone.

Maybe both.

There is a swimming place in front of me.

I must enter there.

The door was open.

I went in.

This place was a school's swimming facility, it seems.

There was a basement on the left side.

Worn-out desks were visible.

I went forward.

On my left was a shower area.

A little further forward.

A room on the left.

A teacher was standing here.

He saw me and asked:

— What do you want?

— To swim.

The teacher looked at me for a moment.

— Space is limited. But there is a swimming competition. If you have the skill, go ahead.

— Alright.

I went inside.

Each of them was my age.

We were all roughly young.

I changed into the necessary gear and jumped into the pool.

The teacher said to the others:

— Don't you know this guy?

They shook their heads.

— I don't know him either. Now we'll find out.

I looked ahead.

When the teacher counted three, the race would start.

One.

Maybe this is the thing I'm looking for, the thing that will satisfy me.

Two.

We have to test it.

Three.

I launched forward as if emerging from the ocean.

Without looking left or right again, eyes closed, simply thrashing.

Very fast.

The smell of chlorine hit me.

Yeah...

Those in the pool liked this, it seems.

I didn't like it.

Yet there wasn't much left to the finish line.

And I felt like I was ahead.

This was an ordinary place for me.

A moment later, I reached the finish.

Yes.

I actually came in first.

I raised my head and looked at everyone.

Everyone was looking at me too.

Yet I felt a strangeness.

I felt satisfied.

Yet this satisfaction was merely a few crumbs.

I wanted there to be a second race.

Just let there be a race.

After everyone left, I was still swimming.

I was making various movements.

Changing my speed.

Turning.

Returning to the start again.

The teacher looked at me in amazement.

Yet he said nothing.

What was he going to say anyway?

I was still swimming.

There was something here.

I just wanted to stay here.

I was feeling satisfied.

Even if just a little.

Night was approaching.

I showered in the bathroom.

Changed my clothes.

Walked out.

I felt comfortable.

I was outside at night.

Then I went back inside.

There was a massage area next to the shower.

I slept there.

I saw nothing in my dream.

Maybe I did.

I was forgetting.

In the morning, I dropped into the pool again.

There was no one there yet.

It was better this way.

I kept swimming from one end to the other without stopping.

Yet I wasn't as satisfied as yesterday.

The pool wasn't deep.

It was shallow.

Three or four meters.

Touching the bottom and rising back to the surface.

I didn't quite fit.

If it were water, my life couldn't be drunk.

If it were food, it couldn't be eaten.

If it were a road, it couldn't be traveled.

If it were air, it couldn't be breathed.

If it were a view, it couldn't be looked at.

I got out of the pool.

Moved away from that area.

Ate pasta at the cafe.

The same people again.

The same talk.

The same laughs.

I want to go far away.

Maybe there's a sea.

A lake.

Another place.

Yet wherever I go, people walk around.

They just look forward.

It's like they have buttons.

You press them.

They become robots.

Furthermore, copies of each other.

I look.

Toward the ocean again.

This time, there is no one in the pool, nor anyone to my left looking at me.

The ocean waves rage.

I look.

I see myself there.

It's as if the ocean is calling me.

"Yeah? Wasn't this enough?"

Should I return there again?

Why did I come from there in the first place?

Didn't I want to?

I came to land myself.

Why, though?

Those on land aren't it.

Those in the ocean are the same.

Yet my feelings stayed in the ocean.

If the fish haven't eaten them...

I took a deep breath.

Maybe let there be a giant dragon.

Let me mount it.

Let it take me to its own world.

Yeah?

It melted.

It went away.

All life is in the ocean.

Dry land isn't for me.

And the ocean is cursed for me.

So where is the other place?

Maybe there is life on another planet.

I don't know.

Maybe there are beings in the ocean.

Beings that understand me.

Going from land to the ocean isn't that hard for me.

Even if a person belongs nowhere, he chooses the place where he belongs not, yet has feelings for.

Even though that place was suffocating me.

Yet my feelings are there.

I am suffocating on land too.

I am suffocating right now anyway.

Maybe aliens will abduct me.

Maybe I won't belong there either.

What then?

What should I do?

Now my life is unrewarded torment.

My heart is suffocating.

Withered like a tree.

Or a flower.

Calling out to me:

Find a cure.

Tear the atmosphere.

I wonder?

I can't stand in my place.

I am spinning around.

If I found meaning, I'd stand still.

I walk down the stairs.

The ocean pulls me like a magnet.

There is no one again.

I went down the stairs.

I am going impulsively now.

To look at the ocean.

Or to swim.

I'm not entering the ocean yet.

Yet I want to enter.

It's as if I wasn't suffering to get out of there.

I was suffering, wasn't I? How did I come back?

How is this possible, is this complexity, or something more?

What level of missing is this?

I feel the word "I miss" in my whole body.

Has such a level ever been seen?

I don't think so.

Will the fish recognize me, I wonder?

Did I come to life for this?

My destiny is a cactus, but I must embrace it like everyone else.

Never mind.

I wish I were an ordinary human.

Though I'd see everything as an illusion.

Being in the ocean changed everything.

Where are my feelings?

Where have they fallen?

Maybe the shark ate them.

Not ordinary fish.

Those feelings are too strong.

Neither fish nor shark can eat them.

They might sink into the deep.

Because they are heavy.

Now I must go into the deep.

To find my feelings.

Maybe they became a sea pearl.

Maybe they touched the bottom of the ocean.

Maybe they are making the ocean even deeper.

Yeah?

Maybe they'll go on forever.

Maybe they got caught on someone's fishing line and pulled them down too.

Yet when the one in the pool drowned, his feelings drowned in his pool, not the ocean.

I don't see my feelings.

They're gone.

On the surface of the water, I no longer know what is land, what is water.

Living through things you don't deserve is proof that life is terrible.

Meaning my life is proof.

My soul mixed into the water.

Just as my blood had mixed.

Then what happened, happened.

A shark comes for blood.

So what comes for a soul?

Let the soul itself come.

Let it enter my body.

I looked up and sighed.

Yet what's the use?

Even if I live two hundred years and sigh every second, it's no good.

At this age, I consider myself two hundred years old.

The crab below is looking at me.

As if it will hear me.

Smarter than those in the pool, as if.

The intelligence of a crab, huh?

Yeah, what else can I say?

Let the world split in two.

Either so you can see more.

How many dimensions does the ocean have?

Ocean, churn with your waves, return what belongs to me if you can find it.

Do not keep inside yourself what does not belong to you.

Dry land isn't for me.

Why did I deceive myself?

Falseness is felt every second.

I see it in people.

I don't see it.

My brain sees it.

It transfers it from there to my heart.

I'm doing a split between land and ocean.

In between the two are the fish.

Two-legged and legless.

The shark.

What is it doing?

It wants to eat.

I wonder, is there no one eating the shark?

Not even me.

Ocean, you are a cursed place.

Yet the place I'm in is cursed too.

I am at such a moment that if I screamed, the world would rip open.

Ocean, give me back my feelings.

Or else I will come.

Even if you are cursed.

The feeling of loneliness is so strong that I feel as if I have a thousand shadows of myself around me.

My soul burns.

Even if you pour water, it's no use.

It doesn't end by stepping onto dry land.

The ocean...

And me.

When I emerged from the ocean, I raised my face to the sky and said:

— My God, was it worth all this suffering?

I stepped onto dry land.

No one welcomed me.

I thought if people mixed with me later, maybe it would be worth it.

Yet now I look.

Even without mixing, there is nothing to make it meaningful, nothing to grant me peace.

I want to enter the ocean.

To take back my feelings now.

Even if they're in the deepest depth, I'll find them.

Even if it isn't meaningful, life itself goes after my feelings.

Because my feelings are what make me, me.

If the things that should be in a person's life don't happen, a person is forced to make happen the things that shouldn't be.

I turned this thought over inside me one last time.

Then I jumped into the ocean.

I moved toward the very center of it.

My organs were aching.

Words wanted to burst out of my mouth.

I want my words to be a bird.

To leave my mouth and rise to the sky.

Let every struggle of mine turn into an earthquake.

Let every heartbeat cleanse the world.

Let me grow shallower as I go deeper.

Look at what simply falling into the ocean brought me to.

What should I wish for now?

Let the noise in my brain turn off.

Let a button be found.

Let me cry out in agony.

Let the creatures in the water fall onto dry land.

And those on land into the water.

I want there to be an underground world at the bottom of the ocean.

Let my tongue taste sugar, not salt.

And perhaps for the first time...

Despite belonging nowhere, I might find myself somewhere.

I can't find it; maybe such a place doesn't exist. I shouldn't have fallen into the ocean in the first place.

Yet I didn't choose this place myself. I was thrown here.

Into an unconscious world, unconscious as its name suggests.

I am sick of this ignorant world. See me.

Let me raise my hand, look, I am here. Is there anyone who sees me?

The weariness in my chest remains there like a seal.

I just want one flare to fire, so everyone looks here.

I ask the fish beside me: haven't you seen my feelings?

How was the fish any different from the people on land?

Yeah, a bit further forward, deep into the ocean.

I'm not going to the small island; I don't fit.

As if I fit anywhere?

I even gave the baby shark's tooth to him, so I'd forget the ocean.

Look, now I am in the ocean.

Who will say sorry for this?

Who will apologize?

Who will return my entire soul?

Who?

After all that has happened, do you think there is justice in life?

If I say yes, I'd be betraying myself, wouldn't I?

At least you answer me, ocean, huh?

There is no answer.

No matter how loud my voice gets,

The world is in a deep silence.

I don't even want them to see me and throw me onto land.

As if there's any difference with land or those on it?

At least those in the ocean lack consciousness.

Those on land are like this despite being conscious.

Those in the ocean fulfill what is given to them.

Yet those on land do not.

Maybe if those in the ocean had consciousness, it would be different.

Or maybe not, just like those on land.

Maybe I did something bad in a parallel universe and don't know it.

Whichever music you play over what I've said, it wouldn't fit.

If music instruments saw me, they'd go out of tune.

Give me oxygen, but not like the one here; let me feel the breath.

I miss it. Believe me, I miss living.

Yet I never lived; I miss something that doesn't exist.

Nothing aligns with me. It's as if my surroundings are numbers, and I am zero.

If there is bad luck, what am I supposed to do? I did what I could.

This torment is still not enough.

Even if this torment had a reward, it wouldn't be worth it.

Funny thing is, there's no reward either, and here I am.

I was shown no path to where belongs to me.

Look at the rest, though; they align completely with life.

Whether I'm in water or on land, I don't even feel it.

What difference does it make looking at it this way? It's fine even if it just has a name.

Besides, everything in my life exists merely in name.

Let my feelings come back to me on their own. I am tired now.

I believe if I tell this to people, they'd smile for two seconds.

Unfortunately, one has to live it. You can't know anything from the outside.

Why should anyone live through this monstrous fate?

I examined the whole world, but there is no answer.

If I am created again, I don't want to be created here.

If you create me again, maybe I'll be a fish, huh?

What made me a philosopher was the death of my feelings.

For once, give me what I deserve.

For once, let there be something that makes me happy, not filled with hate.

Of course, I am merely saying this.

Maybe the one who created me hears me.

Yet He does not listen.

If you are not going to listen, what meaning is left?

Who put me in this state? Me?

Or the situation I fell into? Huh?

This had nothing to do with struggling.

There is no need to say this; no one would understand.

The word "justice" is just a toy to be played with.

Only the naive believe in justice; where is justice?

If there were justice, would these happen, do you think?

The one who is right is me, and I see that there is no justice.

Average people, even if they want this, won't understand. They can only say yes unconsciously.

In return for this, even if heaven were given, it wouldn't be enough.

It feels as if spears called life are being thrown at me.

I am not living; I am observing.

This is their problem, not mine.

Do you think if they weren't fake, I would be an observer? No.

They call me a pessimist, but life is pessimistic toward me.

My life, which I cannot even name, you drop me back into the ocean I once escaped.

Can heaven make a shattered clay pot — meaning my shattered soul — whole again?

Huh? Can it? Let someone answer, can it?

Then don't tell me this is a plan.

Destiny lets most people go with the flow, while opposing a few.

The movement of a domino tile in advance is enough to knock down the remaining tiles.

I am not among those tiles, but I see them hitting one another.

Those whose domino tiles haven't fallen call this a plan.

Of course he would say that. He hasn't seen this situation. For the one in the pool, seeing it and sinking happened at once.

Whatever put me in this state, even if the whole world spat in its face, it wouldn't be enough.

I felt something coming from below, but what? My feelings, or a shark?

The hero didn't know what happened to him afterward.

The shark was an illusion. In reality, the shark was his relentless fate.

Even the boatman wasn't real. There was a boat. What he thought was a boatman was the joy of living.

And the blood he saw was the blood from the ropes cutting his hands and feet.

His state of shock was the exact moment when all his feelings died completely in the face of fate.

They hesitate, yet aim their arrows at my all-seeing eye.

Even the Devil flees, terrified of being exposed—

Now tell me: who runs Hell, you or me?

​The river of Fate sweeps everyone away, yet it flows against me.

Understand this, Fate: I have no quit button.

I drift between two cities, belonging to neither.

​The phrase "my mental health is ruined" is smaller to me

than the microbes crawling on an ant's back.

You tie my hands and throw me into the ocean, while my peers splash in a pool.

​Maybe I'm a resident of another planet, dropped here by mistake.

My life is as tangled and curly as my hair, despite fighting harder than anyone.

​I am gentle enough not to crush an ant,

yet if I erupt the world inside me, the solar system would disintegrate.

​Fate holds a grudge against me.

Fate, you picked the wrong man—my boundaries are larger than you.

My eyes have grown sharper than an eagle's sight.

My clock says twenty, but I carry two hundred years inside.

My war is with the self.

They think I'm Napoleon, and it's Vienna,

I'm a lion, and they're just hyenas.

​Fate is against me, my will defends me,

Each dawn it greets me.

Four walls for me? Can't agree,

It ain't optimal for me.

​If you enter my mind's gateway, I'm sure you'll run away.

If you resume, you'll assume you're in a museum,

And you won't find a soul behind this human button.

​This vision is not a gift, it's a debt,

It's how I adapt.

My creation is my grenade,

I make it, or I explode inside.

​You can't tell a penguin to fly,

That's why I'm legit.

You can't bet on where I dwell in hell.

​My mind's eye shines bright with might, I never fail.

Not enough for a foray, I slay day by day,

They say stay and stray that way—but I slay my own way.

​My light brightens my inside,

My name means light in the night,

Do they have blind eyes, or just tell lies?

They can be channeled into creative fields instead of being viewed simply as “abnormal” because they don’t fit conventional systems. With the right outlet, that mental intensity can be transformed into catharsis.