Sociopaths are good at investigating - C1

1999, in a classroom of 3rd Grade, Class 5 at an elementary school in Seoul.

Ding-ding-ding—
The bell signaling the start of class rang, and the students sat at their desks.
My seat was roughly in the middle of the classroom.

“Alright, kids~ In today’s first period, we’re going to learn about multiplying two-digit numbers,” the teacher announced enthusiastically.

Though the teacher was saying something, her words barely reached my ears.
I simply couldn’t focus.
Once again, I stared into space, lost in my own daydreams.

I’ve always been a little strange, ever since I was young.
I’m still young now, but I mean even younger than this.
From the moment I first started recognizing objects, I distinguished everything by color.

Spoons were red, tissues were green, and shoes were yellow.
When I began to speak, I associated letters and numbers with these colors.
For me, the TV was “one,” the toy train was “four,” and the bathroom was “seven.”
People thought I was odd, but to me, the world simply appeared that way.

The world was a giant, interconnected organism of various colors and shapes.
Seeing those connections fascinated and amused me.

“The method for multiplying two-digit numbers, like 23 times 12, is…”

When you see the world differently, there’s no need to pay attention to boring lessons like this.
Why couldn’t the other kids immediately say “276”?
To me, it was as simple as combining a long rectangle with the color purple.

Of course, my unique way of thinking wasn’t without its drawbacks.
When I entered elementary school, I started *hearing* words and drawings.
In addition to seeing the world, I began perceiving it through sound.

“Next period, during English, we’ll learn about uppercase and lowercase letters. For example, ‘A’ and ‘a’ are both pronounced as ‘A’…”

After that, whenever I focused on something, a wave of dizziness overwhelmed me.
Thinking of the letter “A” brought forth an array of colors and shapes, along with a sound that matched the letter.

Hearing written words and seeing drawn pictures—that was truly mesmerizing.
But it also felt like my head was about to explode.

“‘B’ and ‘b’ are pronounced as ‘B.’ Let’s all try it together. B!”
“B!”

Eventually, I adapted to the dizziness, and by the time I entered second grade, the symptoms disappeared.
But they were replaced by an overwhelming sense of boredom.

In my perception, second-grade lessons were excruciatingly dull.
Compared to the boundless creativity bursting from my mind, the rigid classes and childish test questions were nothing more than “kid’s play.”

Truly, just “kid’s” stuff.
At that age, I started wondering why nine-year-olds were fixated on such trivial things.
They were about to hit double digits in age, for crying out loud!

“You all did a great job. I’m happy! Now, everyone together!”
“I’m happy!”

By the time I entered third grade, I began to suffer from anxiety.
It was the anxiety of having nothing to focus on.
I felt uneasy because I couldn’t indulge in the joy of thinking about new things and making connections.

School lessons were all shallow and boring.
All the thoughts swirling in my mind scattered aimlessly.

“Once again, I’m happy!”
“I’m happy!”

I started shaking my legs and biting my nails—
habits that were often scolded as the top behaviors to avoid.
These became my constant companions during this time.

My mind was so broadly scattered that I struggled to gather it back together.
At this rate, I thought I might lose my mind before even finishing fourth grade.

I needed something to focus on.
I needed to pour my thoughts into something captivating, something that would bring me peace.

“Alright, next period is science…”

“Teacher!”
And then, today.
“Hmm? Ji-hye, what is it?”
“When I went to the restroom during break…”

The moment Ji-hye said those words—
“My set of colored pencils is gone!”

The anxiety finally subsided, replaced by an exhilarating thrill.