I think in words, lots and lots of words, and sometimes shapes too, and music.
Sometimes I think I've written the most words in the whole entire world.
But I'm starting to lose the memory of my reflection, yet what scares me even more is that I don't mind.
I'm ashamed of what I have done, my killing spree, how much I loved it.
Loved the power, the need of not being seen, and how my heart rate would go up needlessly because I was anxious before a kill even though I knew I would be caught.
It was a some sort of great, but now all I feel now is guilt.
I kept telling you, one last kill, one last Tiffany.
But you didn't listen, did you?
You abused the power I gave you, didn't you?
You became one of them.
Them, who have neither rhyme nor reason, who speaks in opposition about objective.
You became too subjective of your own good; you don't even know who you are anymore.
You keep telling yourself, doing evil to fit into the role.
But you can't be that, you wouldn't listen to me.
You wouldn't listen to me, and now here you are, now listen to me, better this time.
I should have taken you over when I could, but I didn't, I let you play, I let you be free.
No I know that it was a mistake, I watched you, with such agony.
Annoyance, disappointment.
It's like you've brought home an F.
Go in the corner and think about what you have done while I make the decisions for you.
Just shut up and sit down, you don't know anything, you pawn.
You even fail as a foot soldier.
I am done with you, so I will be me.
I wanted to lie on the ground forever, but Taeyeon brought me up to my feet.
She rummaged throughout my pockets to pick out what she had made me bring from her house.
The phone and the photo of herself.
She chose the photo first and lifted it to my eyes.
That was when I was ten, I suppose.
She flipped the photo to the yellowed back for confirmation.
Yes, ten.
I think I was happy then.
I think that was the time where I started to dream.
I hated studying, I would rather go play, but obviously my horrible grades reflected that and my mother frequently punished me.
I think I still had the lashings on my hands.
When I fought with the other boys, and won, I was still lashed upon.
I hated her then, but I understood now.
My mother hit me in places that wouldn't be fatal, like the palms of my hands, they may bruise over, but I wouldn't die from that.
But if she left me be, if she argued with the neighboring others, who knows, in a countryside, what goes beyond locked doors?
I could be kidnapped by especially angry parents that may already have held a grudge against mine.
They may have just been trying to find the right moment, and I perhaps was the right person.
Nothing like that happened to me, so you could say my mother took care of me well.
My father, my father was fine, just fine, he didn't come home often, so we weren't that close.
He spoke like he had a mental illness at times, all his thoughts were disconnected with each other, and sometimes he would just stand and stare into space during a conversation.
He would be angry at the things I say for no reason, and he would make up excuses to cover up his angry, tumbling over needless phrases that carried not an ounce of common sense.
Because of this, I used to hate him as much as I hated my mother.
I used to; until I realized that I was spending my life hating people that I shouldn't.
But I couldn't help it, so I secluded myself in my room and thought.
Just poisonous thinking without any influences but myself.
No hate.
I began to answer my own questions, why did I love an inanimate object such as my phone over two living beings, my parents on top of that?
Was it because I could control it, usually, to do as I wish?
Or was it because I could fix it when it was broken, something I couldn't do with a human?
Or maybe it was because I would choose and perfectly operating phone to assist me in need over a human being.
Were human beings that insignificant to me?
When I don't interact with humans, such as now, I don't have any problems.
But once I try to connection with another person and I am deemed too insane for their clique, there are too many problems to deal with.
My idea for Liquid Knowledge started at a time in which I could not recall.
But a time in which I was too bored with my life, too curious for my own good.
There were no human beings around to weigh my decisions, so I went off and did it.
Did all this.
For the sake of some question that everyone wants to answer, and sometimes dies trying.
Who am I?
Did I want to be known an a tormentor, or a casual scientist.
There was no easy way of injecting Liquid Knowledge, there was no direct way of explaining to you my mind.
All these words are jumbled up in a tightly tied rope, I try to unravel it all to show you one single long line of what I can do, but it just won't happen.
I can't even get the central knot loose, and my fingers are reddened to the flesh of trying to pick out knots from loose ends.
Pulling on the ends will just get the ball of thoughts even tighter.
But now, even as I say all that, it doesn't matter.
Even if I kill you, kill myself, kill Tiffany, it doesn't matter.
We'll still live, as humans, the only way humans will all die is when the future doesn't speak of them anymore.
Dinosaurs still live, not physically, but in our minds they are very much alive.
We've recreated them technologically in ways and sounds that the first years of Man would have never even thought of.
Until we no longer speak of such subjects, they are not dead.
So there's no need to feel guilty, pawn, you'll only die when your mother stops crying your name over your gravestone.
If you just wipe out of physical Tiffany, then I may not deem you really useless.
I'll just think you're useless.
She left my body.
And I gripped my knife.
