🫥 Existing by Not Existing ── Oblivion-like Masochism

The Eighth Sense, or 'Eight Senses', is the Alaya-vijnana.
It is the deepest part of the soul, a 'garbage dump of feelings' located at the boundary between memory and the physical body, amidst the ashes of a burned-out microcosm.

It is a realm one never reaches while still alive.
Love and pain have already retreated from there.
Only the sensation of 'not feeling' remains.

Only a few perverts, or those on the verge of enlightenment, 'accidentally' touch it.
Light and sound fall silent, the body becomes transparent, and one ceases to be oneself.

It is neither terror nor salvation.
It is simply the pure, sensual pleasure of 'nothingness'.

── Even feeling things has become a chore.

🔗 Related Links

Prologue | Existence is just unpaid overtime

The five senses, the sixth sense, the seventh sense, and then the eighth sense.
It is an evolution of the act of 'feeling', and also the development of humanity's 'exhaustion from awareness'.

The five senses ── stimuli from the world.
Seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching.
In other words, the hell known as daily life.

The sixth sense ── the sensation of being eaten by the world.
The moment one 'accepts' light and pain.
A gentle madness that allows you to say 'this is fate' while being bitten by the world.

The seventh sense ── 'nullifying' stimuli and assimilating with the world.
A realm where pain and love are 'so understandable it's laughable'.
Even if the world hits you, you can reply, 'Oh, nice rhythm'.

And then,
The eighth sense ── even stimuli are a chore.
Love and death have already been tasted.
Having been eaten by the world too much, one has finally melted.
What remains is the lingering echo of nothingness and a dry sense of humor.

In short, the eighth sense is this ──
'I don't feel anything anymore, but whatever.'

Those who reach this state are no longer 'human', but 'perverts as a concept'.

Chapter 1 | The problem of the world having a bit too much information

The world is now beyond kind; it is noisy.

The morning light hits you in the face without saying 'good morning'.
The wind is always trying too hard.
On the train, the air is thick with the body heat of strangers.

Humanity is now just an ape that evolved with 'notifications ON'.
We have overused our five senses, and our sensibility has died from overwork.

Yet humans still say, 'I want to feel more'.
Emotion, stimulation, love—all on an infinite plan.
The sensation economy of subscription hell.

Even though our emotions are exhausted, we start 'finding ourselves'.
No, you're already exhausted.

A person of the eighth sense whispers this ──
'I'm tired of feeling things.'

Being tired of something is a sign of evolution.
What remains after stimulation dies is silence and dry laughter.
That is the entrance to nothingness.

Chapter 2 | The full-time employment of pain

The era when pain was special is over.
In the past, it was said that 'those who endure are beautiful', but now 'those who endure' are a violation of labor standards.

It hurts when the alarm goes off in the morning.
It hurts during the commute.
It hurts in meetings.
It hurts on social media.
Everything is mildly painful.

Life itself is now a mild SM play.
And without a consent form, at that.

The masochist of the eighth sense understands this.
'Pain' is not something to reject; it is background music.

Every time you are hit, you mark the rhythm, and every time you have a heartbreak, you adjust the tone.
Only those who can art-direct their 'pain' can laugh properly in this world.

Chapter 3 | Kneeling is a dialogue with the floor

For those who have reached the eighth sense, kneeling is neither worship nor submission.
It is now communication with the floor.

It used to mean 'kneeling to a ruler'.
But for the masochist of the eighth sense, it is different.

'I like the floor, so my knees drop naturally.'

That is all.
The era of kneeling to people is over; now, I am in love with 'gravity'.

Gravity is equal.
It looks down on no one and gives love equally to everyone's knees.
That is the 'ultimate S' in the eighth sense.

Chapter 4 | The lukewarm bath of love

Love was hot when the world was cold.
Today's love is room temperature.
Whether it's cooled or warmed, it has no taste.

Even when told 'I love you', I can only think, 'Please serve it at room temperature'.

Indifference is more erotic than passionate love.
Because there is a margin of temperature there.
Drowning in love is less profound than being intoxicated by the absence of love.

Lukewarm love is the hot water of life.
It's good for the body, but it has no taste.
And that is what is most comforting.

Chapter 5 | The world was the M

The Earth is bad at controlling its emotions.
It shakes, it burns, it cries, it gets wet.
It is completely emotionally unstable.

This planet is the biggest masochist.

Tsunamis are whips.
Earthquakes are climaxes.
Volcanoes are masturbation.
Every time a typhoon passes, the Earth takes a breath.
'Ah, I can still go,' it says.

We humans were born as the 'byproduct of its self-play'.
In other words, humanity is the lingering scent of the Earth's orgasm.

Masochism is an automatic regeneration mechanism created by the Earth to punish itself.
That is why when we feel pain, the Earth calms down a little.

It is actually us who are serving the world.

Chapter 6 | The Elegant Pleasure of Not Feeling

“Not feeling” is the most elegant pleasure.
It is not about avoiding pain, but about not reacting to it.
With just that, the spirit is laid bare in an instant.

Nothingness is not coldness, but a gentle body temperature.
Neither hot nor frozen, just comfortably becoming “zero”.

In eighth-sense sex, sound, scent, and conversation are all turned off.
Only the moment when existence and existence “faintly overlap out of sync” remains.

And that is unbearably sensual.
Pleasure is not about feeling, but about “a state where there is no longer any need to react”.

“Ah, I don't even need to climax anymore.”
The moment you can think that is the true peak.

Chapter 7 | The Play of Disappearing

It is not that I want to die.
It is not that I want to disappear, either.
I am just tired of the obligation to “be”.

Names, titles, roles.
They are all heavy accessories.
The moment you take them off, your skin feels lighter.

Existence is noise from the world.
Try muting it once.
Then ── even though it is silent, you can hear your heartbeat.

Disappearing is not about ending something.
It is just “quietly blending into the scenery of the world”.

The eighth-sense masochist sheds pain, pleasure, and even their name, smiling while remaining transparent.
Like a shadow through which light passes, existence and nothingness overlap.

Final Chapter | The Pervert Named Nothingness

Nothingness is not a lack.
It is a state that has become quiet because it is already more than enough.
The perfect blank space that arrives after feeling everything.

There are no tears or climaxes there.
What exists is the final form of perversion: “it feels good even though nothing is happening”.

Kneeling is no longer the goal either.
Pain and love flow by as background music.
Just breathing in the silence.
That alone is sensual enough.

Do not fear nothingness.
Nothingness is the ash of pleasure,
and the gentlest reverberation remaining at the end of the world.

By not existing, one truly exists.
That is the most elegant play of humanity.

……Well, to be honest,
even if I become nothing, the electricity bill won't stop on its own, and at the convenience store register, they still say “Welcome”.

It seems the world still “recognizes” me.

So it cannot be helped.
Shall I feel it one more time?
After all, only perverts are left in this world anyway.

This series was “written” as if I were being chased by something.
The words started running on their own to the point where I mistook myself for being on the border of madness halfway through.
I must have been in what is called “the zone”.

Or perhaps the concepts of past perverts who left attachments in this world were making me write through my hands.

A pervert is truly a creature with deep “karma”.

What I will speak of in the postscript is the “philosophy of karma” ──

It is not pleasure, perversion, or a sexual fetish.
It is a record of the “deepest layer of my own karma” that I reached after continuing to write from the five senses to the eighth sense.
Why am I saved by pain, put in order by humiliation, and why does my life bend with a single bold glance ── I cannot explain.
But surely “something else” is making me write.
You, too, who have read this, can no longer go back.