I remember when the e-book boom began—many of my friends were worried that it would mark the end of paper books. As they predicted, I now see many people reading books and newspapers on Kindles or iPads. I’m not an expert in this field, so I can’t

While I was working on my second assignment—researching Facebook’s Terms of Service—I began thinking about interpretation. Especially in relation to myself. How can I say that I am here? Of course, I’m doing things—I produce by-products: carbon dioxide, dead skin cells, and even this writing.

How can we prove that something is really happening right now—or that it truly happened in the past? We all rely on our senses and thoughts, generated in that small, wrinkled organ: the brain. But the brain can lie to us. In fact, it lies to us many times

Recently, part of me was thinking about the project, while another part was trying not to think at all. I simply couldn’t focus. I tried watching films and visiting galleries. But within a minute, my mind would wander back to the same thought: how can I solve this project?

A few months have passed since I wrote New but Familiar (1). I was frightened by change. When I went back and read my past writings, I realised how many words I had devoted to the fear of change. Then a question emerged: what do “new” and “familiar” mean to

My mum used to say that I would only understand a mother’s mind once I had a child of my own. It wasn’t about being young or naïve—what I truly needed was mutual understanding. So I thought that if I physically went through enough, I might understand

I believe it is not a matter of us deciding whether AI—or any other group, including ourselves—is fundamentally different from us. Rather, each of our choices reveals traces, gradually exposing variations that ultimately define real differences. These newly exposed frameworks shape the contours of who ‘I’ am, and

For the past few weeks, I haven’t been able to rid my mind of thoughts about my memories. I don’t know why they started resurfacing or why they keep coming back. Perhaps it’s the weather, or maybe I am, as always, living in the past. A few