Life Note E-Book

Yeong Hwan Choi

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 312

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Life Note : A Philosophical Journey Through Anti-Natalism and Human Existence "Is it ever truly right to bring a child into this world? In a reality marred by suffering and inequality, are we merely perpetuating the chains of existence, or is there a deeper truth we have yet to uncover?" In the shadow of a violent protest over a women's university's transition to co-education, one professor stumbles upon something extraordinary: a Life Note. This unassuming notebook possesses a chilling power—to summon anyone whose name is written within its pages. What begins as an accidental discovery spirals into a profound exploration of morality, existence, and the human condition. Amid a society obsessed with political correctness, anti-natalism, and the illusion of equality, the professor finds himself at the crossroads of life and death. Should humanity continue to perpetuate itself in a world fraught with suffering? Or is refraining from birth the ultimate act of compassion? These questions take center stage as the professor uses the Life Note to summon history's greatest minds, including Jesus, Buddha, Einstein, and other luminaries, for answers. Together, they wrestle with the universe's most confounding questions: Is life an inescapable cycle of suffering, or is there meaning in the chaos? Does free will truly exist, or are we pawns of cosmic inevitability? Is the Big Bang the beginning of all, or just one phase in an infinite sequence? Can humanity overcome its divisions of gender, ideology, and power to find true equality? Open the Life Note, and step into a world where the power to destroy or preserve humanity rests in one person's hands. Will you dare to read what comes next?

Leseprobe

Life Note

(Anti-Natalism)

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

LIFE NOTE

First edition. November 28, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Yeong Hwan Choi.

Written by Yeong Hwan Choi.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Life Note

Prologue. The Meaning of Life and Birth

Chapter 1. The Principle of Rules and Uncertainty

- Rules of the Life Note -

NOTE:

Chapter 2. Is Life Suffering or Willpower?

NOTE:

Chapter 3. The Argument Across Time

NOTE:

Chapter 4. The Essence of the Soul and the Principle of Multiplicity

NOTE:

Chapter 5. The Value of Existence and Life

NOTE:

Epilogue. In the Chance of Death

Life Note

(Anti-Natalism)

––––––––

Prologue. The Meaning of Life and Birth

Under the pale gray sky, the campus of D Women’s University on the outskirts of Seoul looked starkly different today. What should have been serene, with its stately marble buildings and tree-lined pathways, was now chaotic. The once-pristine facades were defaced with scrawled slogans in blood-red and pitch-black spray paint: “Women, never back down!” and “No to co-ed schools! Get the men out!” The jagged, hurried strokes of the letters looked like angry scars slashed across the walls and pavement. The acrid stench of spray paint clung to the air, seeping even into the underground parking garage, sharp enough to sting my nose. I slammed my car door shut, the sound muffled by the surreal energy radiating from the campus.

As I stepped out, I heard it—a song, its chorus rippling across the campus like waves:

"Women, don’t shrink away! Stand tall and fight back!”

It wasn’t just music; it was a war cry. Blared through megaphones, the voices swelled with grim determination, accompanied by the raw roar of a crowd in perfect sync with the beat. The asphalt beneath their feet seemed alive with their stomping, as though the earth itself had joined the protest. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Walking toward the lecture hall, I felt the bass vibrate through the soles of my shoes, the rhythm climbing my legs, embedding itself in my bones. Around the megaphones, the crowd pressed tightly together, their movements sharp and disciplined—almost militaristic. They weren’t just students; they were soldiers of a self-proclaimed revolution.

But my thoughts drifted elsewhere. My mind turned to my peers, men of my age. They were in military training, enduring drills, carrying rifles, and sometimes—not rarely—dying. Open a news portal on any given day, and you’ll see it:

“Trainee in the XX Division dies during exercise. Officials investigate claims of abuse.”

Their names, if mentioned at all, were obscured by formality, swallowed up by a green backdrop of anonymity. Their deaths, mere footnotes in a nation’s machinery.

And then, there was this. This loud, fervent display of defiance, underpinned by a glaring irony. These women rallied for their rights, their voices sharp, their passion undeniable. Yet beneath the slogans and chants, there was something else—evasion. Privilege cloaked in victimhood. “No obligations for us,” they seemed to say.

I watched as the student council president took the stage, gripping the megaphone with the fervor of a preacher. Her voice rang out, laced with conviction, but something felt off. Behind her, shadowy affiliations lurked—feminist organizations and other groups with broader, more radical agendas. Their influence was palpable, guiding the slogans, shaping the narrative.

Their cries of empowerment and resistance weren’t just hollow; they were hypocritical. “The military? That’s a man’s problem. Why should we bother with that?” they’d scoff if asked. There was no sense of duty here, no understanding of security or responsibility, only finger-pointing and derision. And yet, they carried on, stomping and chanting, as if their fight was the only one that mattered.

As the lecture hall drew closer, my pace quickened without me realizing. Along the way, I passed a bronze bust that had become their newest target. It was slathered in bright red tteokbokki sauce, the thick, glossy liquid dripping down slowly, giving the appearance of a bloodied face. The spicy, vinegary tang of the sauce filled the air, stinging my nose. The smell was as intrusive and chaotic as the scene itself—a sharp, biting symbol of the unruly fervor that gripped the campus.

Up close, the bust was in worse shape. Its face was smeared with trash: empty milk cartons, crushed ramen wrappers, and tattered scraps of plastic. They clung stubbornly to its forehead and jaw, as if trying to suffocate whatever dignity remained. Around its pedestal, handwritten placards lay scattered: “Protect Women’s Education,” “Democracy is Dead.” The letters were scrawled in jagged, almost violent strokes, overlaid with crude doodles, as if the act of vandalism itself carried some sacred significance.

Students passed the bust without a glance, their fists raised, mimicking scissors with their fingers as they chanted slogans in rhythmic unison. Nearby, one of them held a nearly empty container of tteokbokki sauce aloft, shouting triumphantly: “This is just the beginning! We won’t stop until the end!”

The real spectacle, however, stood atop the bust’s elevated pedestal: a woman gripping a baseball bat with bare hands, her pale wrists exposed to the cold. No helmet, no gloves—nothing but raw defiance. She swung the bat with both hands, her movements clumsy yet unyielding, as though each strike was a declaration, a blow against some invisible oppressor. There was no hesitation, no guilt. Just the steady cadence of destruction.

Each time the bat connected with the bronze face, the sound reverberated through the air—thud, clang! The wooden handle smacked against the cold metal, a jarring collision that sent faint vibrations through the ground. The bust wobbled slightly on its base, its tired face chipped and worn.

The man immortalized in the statue was once a leader, a pioneer who built this university from the ground up. He had championed women’s education in a time when such ideals were scorned. His name was etched into the foundation of the school—a tribute to his legacy.

But now, the years had dulled his features, and his face bore no trace of the honor he once commanded.

Clang! The bat struck the jaw, hard enough to send a faint tremor through the statue. The onlookers roared in approval, their cheers rolling over the scene like waves in a stadium.

“Hit it harder!” “Knock it over!”

Their cries had the manic energy of a crowd waiting for a home run, every swing drawing laughter and applause.

Thud. Thud. Clang. The rhythmic sound of wood meeting bronze was relentless, an anthem of destruction that reverberated through the chaos.

The founder’s chiseled gaze, carved deep into the bust, stared blankly into the void, unyielding. His expression, eerily calm, seemed to mock the woman’s every strike, his bronze face absorbing her anger without so much as a crack. What exactly is this for? I wondered. Will smashing his likeness rewrite the school’s history? Or is she merely staining the tarnished surface with her rage, leaving it to corrode alongside her fury?

The bat struck one last time, a deafening crack reverberating through the square. It wasn’t the bust that broke. Perhaps it was her—splintering under the weight of her own vehemence.

Turning, I saw the growing crowd at the campus gates. More students had gathered, dragging desks and chairs to build makeshift barricades, blocking the entrance. Some checked IDs, forming an impromptu checkpoint, their eyes flickering with unspoken resolve. Their faces brimmed with a fervor I couldn’t quite place, like a strange hybrid of desperation and conviction.

The asphalt beneath my feet bore scars of its own, smeared with chaotic streaks of red, black, and white. Someone had scrawled Women’s Rights! in garish paint, the letters bleeding into one another like some twisted rainbow of defiance. The fresh lacquer clung to my shoes, sticking with every step, each squelching noise a grim reminder of the ground’s newly minted battle scars. The building’s once-pristine white walls were now littered with crooked slogans and splashes of vandalism. It didn’t matter how hard anyone tried to clean it—these marks had been made to endure, to linger like the bitterness in the air.

Near the entrance, rows of black funeral wreaths stood like silent sentinels. Their glossy ribbons read: Protect the Pride of Women’s Universities, Restore Our Honor. The chrysanthemums, stark white against their somber backdrop, gleamed with unsettling vitality. But their message wasn’t just one of mourning; it carried something far more combative. Students stood beside the wreaths, snapping pictures as if to immortalize their defiance. Their cheers and laughter rose like a fevered chant, turning grief into spectacle.

Parked beside the flowers, a large truck played looping videos on its screen. The bold text declared: Your sisters fought for this. Now, you fight for the school.

The contradictions of the scene were almost too much to bear. These students clung to their monogrammed jackets, safeguarding them from the rain in neatly wrapped plastic bags, yet didn’t hesitate to trash the very classrooms they claimed to defend. Every step deeper into the building revealed more chaos: whitewashed walls defiled by graffiti, doors chained and padlocked as if the classrooms were prisoners in their own school. Their line between preservation and destruction blurred until nothing was left but confusion.

When male police officers arrived, the tension escalated instantly. They approached cautiously, scanning the crowd. One senior officer muttered something under his breath:

“You girls ought to think about becoming teachers. Start families, have kids someday. Settle down, huh?”

The roar of outrage from the students was immediate, searing the air with unrelenting fury.

“You have kids, asshole!”

“What would an omega like you even know about us?”

The rage of the women felt unending, like a storm breaking over itself again and again, refusing to wane. And in the back of my mind, echoes of another time surfaced: the memories of a generation that had screamed for democracy, only to leave behind a trail of violence and disillusionment.

The so-called "586 generation" had been their fathers and mothers. Champions of justice in their youth, they’d claimed to fight tyranny, only to splinter into factions, some worshipping foreign powers, others leaving scars in the name of revolution. They’d crushed civilians under the weight of their righteousness, their darker secrets hidden in shadows—their deeds, both grand and grotesque, now worn as badges of honor.

And now their daughters stood here, repeating the same madness in a different guise.

What should have been protected, as adults? The question lingered, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. Beneath the banner of equality, practicality had been discarded. Their ideals, once grounded in purpose, now drifted like hollow specters, unmoored and aimless.

At the heart of the women’s university campus, before the façade of a worn, crumbling building, a cluster of female students brandished flags. Their chants showed no signs of abating, rising like a war cry into the afternoon air. A massive banner hung nearby, its crimson letters screaming: “We’ll perish before we open our gates!” The fabric flapped defiantly in the wind, echoing the resolute defiance etched into their faces.

“Men, get out! This school is sacred ground for women!” one of them bellowed, her voice amplified by a megaphone. It carried through the air like a shockwave, rustling the leaves in the nearby trees. The slogans were interspersed with stray remarks from the crowd, vivid as if they’d leaped straight out of a novel.

“Men? You mean the same ones who loiter by the women’s restroom lines, pretending not to stare? No way, never again!” shouted a voice from somewhere in the mass.

“Exactly! The ones who hog classroom seats with their sweaty gym bags, talking about soccer nonstop? Spare me! A billion of them couldn’t convince us!” another chimed in, her words drawing a ripple of laughter and applause.

Toward the back, a student waving her hand high in the air pushed her way to the front. With a large speaker balanced precariously in her hands, she cried out, “Don’t forget why women’s universities exist! This is the last bastion, untouchable by men!” Her declaration drew cheers, and the chant “Men, get out!” roared anew like a chorus of rebellion.

Another girl holding a flag seized the megaphone again, her expression serious but laced with derision. “Letting men into a women’s university? That’s like a vegan restaurant serving steak!” The crowd burst into laughter, their voices rising above the sunlight spilling onto the campus, bathing the chaos in an almost ironic serenity.

Yet the mood was anything but calm. Rumors had spread about a corporate HR team visiting campus that day, and the students had gathered en masse in response. Inside the main exhibition hall, the orderly setup of chairs and desks stood no chance. Furniture was toppled, lecture materials and equipment scattered like confetti. The cacophony of destruction echoed across the quad—chairs cracking, desks thudding against the ground in waves of sound that reached even the periphery.

The sun, once bright, disappeared behind a thick curtain of clouds, leaving the sky a muted shade of ash. The asphalt beneath my feet felt rough, its grainy surface pressing against my soles with every step. Off to one side of campus, preparations for a music department graduation recital had been underway, but that, too, had been disrupted. Students who’d been tuning cellos and rehearsing piano solos now stood near the doors, their faces flushed with frustration and sorrow. Tears welled in their eyes as they abandoned the instruments they’d practiced with for months, their steps hesitant and heavy.

And in the middle of it all, I couldn’t help but feel the irony of it. The war cries of preservation, yet the trail of destruction they left in their wake. A school meant to shield something sacred—yet who, I wondered, would protect it from them?

“This isn’t feminism—it’s a distortion of something else. There must be forces working behind the scenes. Probably politics, too,” I muttered under my breath as I approached the building.

But the entrance was barricaded, just like the others. Students armed with wooden bats and makeshift banners stood vigil, blocking any access. Girls with white headbands had formed a solid wall, arms linked as if they were soldiers in formation.

“Sisters! Stand your ground! Kick out the misogynists! Professor, you’re not allowed through either!” one girl shouted, stepping forward to block the way.

“We won’t back down! If you try to bring men in here, we’ll all fight back!” another added, spreading her arms wide to stop me. Her gaze was resolute, unwavering. Behind her, more students rallied, their flags fluttering and voices rising in defiant chants.

“I just need to get to work. I have bills to pay, too,” I replied, trying to reason.

Her eyes widened, and she fixed me with a sharp glare. A flicker of disdain passed across her face, her lips curling into a scornful smirk. I took a step forward, determined to push through, but then her voice rang out like a dagger slicing through the air.

“Are you harassing me right now?”

The accusation was casual, tossed out with a nonchalance that made it all the more infuriating. My jaw clenched, and I bit back a retort, feeling an angry heat rising in my chest. My fists tightened, but I forced myself to let the words die in my throat. What was the point? The exhaustion was almost suffocating, pressing down on me like a heavy fog.

I turned away silently, my movements slow and deliberate, as if I could shake off the weight of their stares. Behind me, the chants grew louder, their voices sharp as knives.

“We won’t back down! Get out, you worthless excuses for men!”

The wind carried their words, scattering them across the chaotic campus. The once-vibrant flowerbeds lay in ruins, their roots torn from the earth. Dust and dirt swirled in the air, mingling with the shredded remains of posters plastered across vandalized notice boards. Every step I took felt precarious—broken shards of glass or splinters catching underfoot.

It was as though the ground itself was rejecting me.

“So this is what they call a movement?” I muttered to myself, the irony bitter on my tongue. “What kind of equality are they even fighting for?”

Meanwhile, in today’s Korea, young women advocate for the 4B movement: no dating, no sex, no marriage, no childbirth. They declare these choices as their ultimate freedom. Yet even in the midst of the Russia-Ukraine war, women party in clubs, drink with men, and indulge in hedonistic pleasures. On the other hand, young men are the ones dying on the front lines, hit by mortar shells or caught in drone strikes. And when you bring this up, the response is always the same: “What does that have to do with us? It’s not our problem.”

Choice, for them, seems closer to buffet feminism—taking rights without responsibilities. It’s collective, oppressive, and leaves no room for dissent. The chaos on this campus wasn’t just about transitioning to co-education. It was a symptom of a broader issue—a symbol of a society grappling with a collapsing birthrate.

“Isn’t the world inherently a painful place?” I thought bitterly. Humanity has always existed amidst inequality and contradiction. This scene was just another extension of that.

Somewhere in the distance, the acrid scent of spilled tteokbokki sauce lingered, sharp and clinging to my nostrils. My throat burned faintly, a reminder of the spice hanging in the air.

“Is this a descent into barbarism, or the birth of a more expansive understanding of rights?” I wondered. The question hung unanswered as I stepped further away from the crowd, leaving behind the echoes of their chants and the shattered remnants of what once resembled a university campus.

The answer wasn’t clear—not even close. “This isn’t just about the school,” I muttered to myself, pocketing the bitter thought like loose change. My hand reached instinctively for my phone. The screen lit up, and a few swipes brought me to YouTube, its algorithm serving up a buffet of chaos. Headlines screamed at me in bold, unrelenting font.

"D Women's University in Turmoil Over Male Student Admission Controversy."

"Gender Conflict: Is There a Way Out?"

"Politicians Stir the Pot Once Again?"

The thumbnail showed the campus I’d just walked through, red-lettered banners emblazoned with "We’d rather disappear than open our gates!" flapping defiantly in the background. My thumb hovered over a clip, and with a faint hesitation, I tapped. A reporter’s voice flooded the screen, crisp and urgent.

“Today, the protests at D Women’s University have escalated beyond a campus issue, symbolizing the broader gender conflict across society. The Ministry for Gender Equality and prominent women’s rights groups have defended the protests, framing them as a necessary stand for women’s rights. Meanwhile, opposing parties have condemned the actions as ‘barbaric and uncivilized,’ calling for immediate intervention. Experts warn that this situation is ripe for political exploitation.”

My thumb scrolled down, uncovering the jagged underbelly of the internet: the comment section. Words of anger, mockery, and cold indifference piled on top of one another like debris in a storm.

“Women rallying together? No wonder the country’s falling apart. Haven’t you heard the saying: if hens crow, the household crumbles?”

“This has nothing to do with you thirty-something men. Why are you so pressed? It’s our problem.”

The same predictable clash, over and over. Words masquerading as dialogue but designed to wound.

The video jumped to a female politician speaking with fervor that bordered on righteous anger. “This is not just a university matter. It’s a fight for women’s survival. If we yield here, women’s rights will cease to exist!”

The feed cut to another clip, this time a smirking spokesperson from the opposition. “Is this democracy? A theater of ideology and violence—is this the society we’re striving for?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the farce of it all. Democracy? For them, it was just a catchphrase. A weapon, sharp and precise, to win votes. I let the bitterness slip from my lips in a low murmur. “Wielding the knife of division, not caring where the blade lands. As long as it cuts deep enough to pull voters in, they’ll keep swinging.”

My scrolling slowed, my finger hovering over a new segment. This time, analysts dissected the situation with clinical detachment.

“Gender conflict isn’t just a societal issue anymore. It’s become a political strategy. Political parties rally around specific demographics, fostering division between genders to secure their voter base. In doing so, they solidify their power while leaving the rest of society to deal with the fallout.”

The words hung heavy in the air, like the faint aftertaste of bad coffee—lingering and unwelcome.

I stared down at my phone, shaking my head slowly. “It’s not about feminism or some male-dominated ideology. None of that matters. To the politicians at the top, it’s all just wordplay—another way to siphon off money and maintain control. We’re nothing more than pawns on their chessboard.”

Sliding the phone back into my pocket, I turned to take one last look at the campus. Female students shouted slogans with voices sharp enough to cut through steel, while others stood on the fringes, murmuring quietly among themselves. The chaos was like a cacophony composed by the media and political elites—a dissonant symphony played by an orchestra doomed to fail.

“This music will end one day,” I whispered to myself with a faint sigh. “But when it does, what kind of song will we be singing then?”

It was as if society had split into two camps on opposite sides of a battlefield, their ideologies tearing through the fabric of coexistence. The fractures seemed impossible to mend. There was no reason for me to linger here. Research materials sat untouched in my bag, but I had neither the energy nor the will to care. Turning away, I decided to head home.

The stairs to the underground parking garage were cold, the air growing damp and heavy as I descended. The chill pressed against my skin, making the surface of my thoughts feel even frostier. Humans crave equality, yet struggle endlessly to escape suffering, I thought as my footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell. Everything unfolding now is just an extension of that pursuit.

The parking garage was dimly lit, its fluorescent lights flickering with the fatigue of neglect. My car stood alone in the corner, bathed in the pale glow of shadows. As I opened the driver’s door and slid inside, the smell of lacquer and faint traces of spicy tteokbokki—lingering from the chaos above—faded into the background. But the protestors’ voices didn’t.

“Women, rise and stand tall!”

Their defiant chant echoed in my mind even as the silence of the car tried to swallow it whole.

Even as I reached for the steering wheel, their faces and voices refused to fade. It was as if they’d been seared into my memory. “This long night... when will it end?” I murmured. Then another thought hit me. “Or can it even end at all?”

That was when I noticed it—the red notebook lying conspicuously on the passenger seat. Its presence was jarring, its bold, vibrant color stark against the dull gray of the car’s interior. I reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second before my fingers grazed the leather-bound cover.

That’s when it happened.

A strange, shimmering light burst into view, sharp and ethereal, like the first crack of dawn piercing a black sky. It wasn’t just light—it had form, texture, almost like it was alive. For a moment, it seemed to hover in place, quivering as though caught between dimensions.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, leaving nothing but the empty air.

I froze, my breath caught in my chest. My hand hovered inches from the notebook as my pulse thundered in my ears. My mind reeled, grappling with the impossibility of what I’d just seen.

That... that wasn’t here before. And that light... what was that?

The notebook sat there, still and unassuming, yet radiating an inexplicable tension. It felt like something out of place, something that didn’t belong. My eyes stayed fixed on it, my hand trembling faintly as if it might come alive in the next instant.

“What... what the hell is this?” I whispered, my voice barely audible against the silence.

The air in the car felt heavier now, as if I had just been thrust into a story far larger than myself—a story I hadn’t chosen to be part of.

I cautiously picked up the notebook. Its cover appeared worn, but the surface was smooth under my fingers, almost unnervingly new. It was thin, light, but somehow carried an inexplicable weight. I placed it back on the passenger seat, my hands briefly hovering over the steering wheel. Turning the key, the engine rumbled to life, and I felt the slight dampness of sweat on my palms as I slowly reversed, maneuvering out of the parking garage and beginning to climb the slope. Maybe it’s just some promotional flyer I picked up while walking... But what about that light? What was that just now?

As the barrier at the parking lot exit lifted and I drove out into the street, I finally exhaled deeply. Where am I even going right now?

My hand on the wheel slipped slightly from the cold sweat, the rough leather damp to the touch. Though my gaze was fixed on the road ahead, a storm of thoughts swirled within me, each one heavier than the last.

Outside, the darkness had already begun to close in. The late autumn sky was as black as pitch, and the orange glow from the streetlights flickered faintly, casting its dim light on the quiet streets. As I turned onto the main road, the first thing that caught my eye was an electronic billboard.

“South Korea, population expected to decrease by two-thirds by 2100. Act now.” Beside it, a green graph animation slowly fell, repeating its descent in an endless loop.

There were almost no pedestrians to be seen among the passing cars. The few people who were out had their heads lowered, their faces illuminated by the blue light of their smartphones. The light from the billboard danced in the quiet of the street, shaking as though alive.

As I veered into a narrow alley, the familiar sight of once-bustling cafes and shops closing down stood like ghosts of a forgotten past. On store windows, the faded words “For Rent” clung stubbornly, and benches along the sidewalk were empty. A park that once had echoed with the laughter of children now stood silent, the only movement the yellow leaves blown by the wind.

I turned on the radio, and a familiar voice filled the car.

“Elon Musk warned us. South Korea’s population is going to shrink to a third of what it is now. This isn’t just a statistic—it’s happening right before our eyes. The population decline will lead to an economic crisis, but more than that, it could be a crisis of existence itself. Childbirth is no longer just an individual choice; it’s a matter of survival for the entire society.”

The billboard flashed again, displaying another slogan.

“Having children is happiness.”

Below it, a blurred image of a smiling family appeared, but something about their smiles felt too staged, too perfect, creating an unsettling disconnect. As the demographer’s increasingly grim analysis continued on the radio, the weight of the words sank deeper into my chest.

“Eventually, all human culture, memories, and the accumulation of technology will fade into obscurity. It will be like a language slowly disappearing from use, slipping away until it’s gone entirely.”

I drove into the apartment complex, coming to a stop at the entrance. As soon as I turned off the engine, a suffocating silence enveloped me. The gray, monotonous buildings outside the window seemed to close in, and the stillness of the parking lot wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. The women's university I belonged to had reached a tipping point, forced to consider admitting male students, and the conflict between the students and the administration was only going to escalate. The debate over the tradition, values, and the harsh realities of the school had spiraled into violence and chaos without ever being openly discussed. In the midst of it all, I could do nothing but struggle to hold onto my place.

The apartment I lived in, a lonely refuge, felt even more desolate tonight. What is the meaning of birth? Is being born merely being cast into suffering and contradiction? The thought gnawed at me, a heavy weight pressing down on my mind.

The reflection of my face in the car window seemed strange, too expressionless. My right shoulder drooped, weighed down by the world. Why was I born? Life is nothing but a vast prison. The moment we're born, the punishment begins. Like an innocent man who is wrongfully convicted, sentenced to years of prison without ever appealing.

But release? It didn't make sense. The prisoner, having grown so accustomed to the pain, was released as a model inmate. Yet, when the familiar agony was gone, all that remained was emptiness and the urge to end it all. The world itself became just another prison, one you couldn't escape, not even from behind bars. Unlike a prison, the outside world was too unfamiliar, too terrifying. It wasn't freedom—it was just another kind of pain, and it could very well lead to death.

I didn’t want to be born. No, I never even had the desire to be born. How cruel is it that the desires and impulsive sexuality of my parents determined my entire existence? I never wanted it. The echo of that thought reverberated deep within me. I thought about all the suffering I wouldn’t have had to endure, the sadness I wouldn’t have had to feel, if I had never been born. What a violent force it must be to bring someone like me into existence. We scream the moment we’re born. Is that the first experience of pain? Then, is the one who was never born happy? What is the freedom of nonexistence? To deny existence itself—couldn’t that be the fate of the living?

The paradox was inescapable. It was a contradiction that gnawed at the core of being itself.

The headlights from the car illuminated a woman holding an elderly hand, and in an instant, I saw them clearly. The elderly woman, her back hunched with age, trudged forward slowly, one step at a time. Her frail shoulders, visible beneath the thin cardigan, trembled with each labored breath. The deep contrast of darkness and light highlighted the sharpness of her ribs, making her seem almost skeletal. The woman beside her, clearly showing signs of Down syndrome, was being dragged along, her small, fragile hand held tightly in her mother’s. She was clinging to her mother, yet there was no ease in her movements. Her face flushed red, and her cries tore through the silence, hitting my eardrums with a guttural sound.

“Ahhhhhh!” The scream was unlike any I’d ever heard—a beastly wail. It wasn’t delicate or fragile; it was raw, deep, and coarse. She flung her arms wildly, trying to pull away from her mother’s grasp. “No! No!” Her words were indecipherable, drowned by the rising tide of her sobs. The mother clung to her hand with all her might, her voice cracking with desperation. "Just a little more... just a little more, my child..."

The elderly woman's face was a roadmap of time, with thousands of wrinkles crisscrossing her skin. Her legs and back shook as if barely holding her upright, her faint white hair fluttering slightly with every breath she took. Soon, the daughter, overcome with emotion, wrenched her hand free and collapsed to the ground. Her white sneakers slipped off her feet with a small thud as they struck the edge of the curb. Barefoot, she thrashed and kicked, her bare soles scraping roughly against the coarse asphalt, leaving a trail of red in her wake. The sound of her hands slapping the ground rang out—tap tap—as she continued to writhe in anguish.

The elderly woman bent down, trying to comfort her, her back bowed. "We need to go home, eat, rest..." The daughter’s wide eyes, now swollen with tears and snot, stared blankly into the headlights. Her pupils, like fragile porcelain, appeared to grow impossibly large in the light, her gaze hollow and lost.

"Uaaang!" Once more, her cry erupted into the night, a long, echoing howl of pain and frustration, as if she was trying to expel her agony into the world. The old woman, unable to straighten her bent form, tried to pull her into a hug, her voice soft, but filled with pain. "It's okay, it's okay. Mom's here... we’ll get through this... once we get home, everything will be better."

Why can't I look away from this scene? I asked myself. Hadn't I, too, cried out in agony when I was born? Wasn't my own birth, like hers, a brutal introduction to a world that would not care for me? Even as I grew older, becoming a professor, wasn’t I doomed to stand by, merely a passive witness to the lives of others, much like the lights that shined down on them, helpless and impotent?

Her cries never stopped, and the elderly woman continued to hold her, rocking her gently. Under the harsh light, their figures grew smaller and smaller, swallowed by the darkness surrounding them. Genetics is a cruel lottery, I thought. Neither of them had done anything wrong. But the life of this grown woman had been determined the moment she was born. She had entered the world through the lottery of genetics, cursed to carry the mind of a four-year-old at the age of twenty. Some are born into nothing, and some inherit wealth and intelligence. All I could do was watch, my eyes following their dwindling footsteps. Fate is just violence disguised as coincidence. No one chooses the number they are born with, yet that number will determine their entire life.

The hands of the elderly grandmother, who must be in her seventies, were no longer the warm, reassuring hands I once imagined. Her fingers, though they gripped tightly, carried the cold, unyielding weight of time. The daughter in her care, no older than twenty, had been bound to the mind of a four-year-old for life. I didn't need to watch the rest of the story unfold to know that the child’s fate had been sealed at birth. How cruel, how profoundly unjust, that the mere act of being born could be the drawing of a losing lottery ticket, one that would never come with a prize.

There is a brutality inherent in our DNA, a brutal irony embedded in who we are, where we come from, and how we live. Some are born with opportunities, while others are born with wounds they can never escape. Their entire existence is marked from the very start by an unyielding suffering that they cannot outrun. I was struck with a dark realization: the cry of the left-wing for justice seemed but another strategy of capitalism in disguise. "All men are equal?" "The world is fair?" It was a grand lie, woven with the threads of deceit.

The truth was simpler: survival of the fittest. Politics, ideologies, they all paled in comparison to the raw, primal truth of nature. The strong devour the weak, and those without the gifts of strength, intelligence, or luck are left beneath the heels of the powerful, ground into the dirt. We are born shackled by the chains of our genes. The unlucky are merely prey. And even more tragically, sometimes, those born with talent find that luck, the cruelest of forces, does not favor them, rendering their gifts useless.

Everything was a matter of chance. The likelihood of finding a path that matched your talents was no better than winning the lottery. Most people gambled with uncertainty, staking their lives on a series of unpredictable turns. The whole process—this entire, grinding life—felt unforgiving and absurd.

I could not understand where my life fit in this random, cruel world. What was the probability of success in a world ruled by chance? The parking lot outside the window seemed to know the answer, its silence pressing against my chest like the weight of an insurmountable truth. If happiness existed within the pain, what did that mean?

Happiness, I realized, was nothing but the brief illusion of relief when pain momentarily subsided. Even those who held money and power could never escape suffering. It was the secret shared by everyone, whether they admitted it or not. Happiness was not the opposite of pain—it was the fleeting comfort that came when the intensity of pain lessened. Even the richest, the so-called untouchables, were not immune. Take, for example, Elon Musk, the richest man in the world. His children, too, grappled with crises of identity, family conflicts, and pain. Not even the almighty could escape the dark corners of suffering.

I tried to find something in the reflection of myself in the car window, but all I saw was just a faint outline. Health, something money can’t buy, and the moment when extreme misfortune strikes—it was a threshold no one was exempt from. A random accident could result in lost limbs, full-body burns, or whatever riches one might possess; none could escape the abyss of suffering. “Then, isn’t it the best choice not to be born at all?” The chaos and suffering happening in South Korea, and even the happiness I might experience, would be nothing more than a superficial shell.

I stared intently at the red notebook placed on the passenger seat. The words “Life Note” seemed to flicker in front of me like an ominous symbol. Slowly, I ran my fingers over the cover and turned the pages, but they were empty. An empty notebook. Suddenly, a soft glow began to emanate from the cover, gradually filling the space with a dazzling light. “What the hell!” I instinctively dropped the notebook and stumbled back. My heart pounded in my chest. White, transparent wings spread out from the light, and in the center stood a luminous figure.

“I am Gabriel.”

The voice, shaped by some unknown form, rang like a bell descending from the heavens. It was deep and smooth, yet carried such weight with a single word that it held me captive. The figure resembled a human but was something else entirely. Radiant blonde hair, pure white wings, and a brilliant golden armor commanded all attention. I raised my hand to shield my eyes and shouted, “Who are you? What’s going on here?”