Book 67. Stories I Knew Before Birth

The old man’s name was Semyon.
He lived at the edge of the village, where the river bent and grew still, as though before the final word.
Every morning he went out to his garden.
He planted nothing new—only tended what had long ago sprung up.
Especially one tree.
No one knew what kind it was. It bore no fruit. Did not bloom. Did not grow.
“Useless,” the neighbors would say.
“Why do you water it?”
But Semyon would smile and go on.
One day children came to the village—a city camp, an excursion.
They ran, laughed, filmed stories, and laughed at how the old man spoke to the tree.
One girl, the quietest of them all, sat down beside him and asked:
“Why do you water a tree that gives nothing?”
Semyon looked at her, not as at a child, but as an equal.
And answered:
“It gives… Presence.”
“What is that?”
He laid his hand on the trunk.
For a long time he did not speak.
And then he whispered:
“There are places in the world where God sits and is silent. This is one of them.”
“And I simply water it, so that He will not leave.”
The girl did not answer.
But that evening, already on the bus, she wept for the first time in a long while.
Not from hurt.
But because she remembered
that she had long been waiting
for someone to name Her without words.

From that time on, people began to notice the tree.
Not the adults.
But the children.
Not with their eyes.
But with the heart.
And when one day Semyon did not come out,
it still stood there.
Quiet.
Wordless.
But there was so much Life in it
that even the wind moved more slowly beside it.

And if ever you should find yourself in a village
where there are no street names,
and hear that by the river there is a tree
that gives nothing—
sit beside it.
And simply sit.
For perhaps
You are the one who now
waters the Presence.

When the train stopped,
the man in the gray jacket got off without looking,
without turning back,
without leaving behind so much as a glance or a gesture.
And everything became as before.
But what had been before—could no longer contain him.
He did not go to work.
He did not go home.
He simply walked through the city.
And in every window he saw an echo of that gaze.
And in every face—a question:
And you—have you awakened?
He did not know who that man was.
Or whether he was at all.
But from that day on
everything he did,
he did with an inner stillness:
as though he were still being watched,
not judged, not measured—
and remembering Who he Is.

Sometimes he dreams of the subway.
The car, the train, the noise.
And across from him—an empty seat.
But the gaze is still there.
And in that gaze—
himself.

In the old post office,
which they had long wanted to close,
in the box for lost letters
lay an envelope with no stamp, no address, no name.
No one knew how it had got there.
But every time a new employee sorted through the archives—
he would stop at that letter.
And for some reason would not throw it away.

One day they decided to digitize the mail.
Volunteers came, scanners, archivists.
A young woman named Lena took the dullest box upon herself.
At the bottom she found the envelope.
The paper was warm.
Not damp. Not dry.
But alive.
She opened it.
Inside—one sheet,
and on it only two lines:
If you are reading this—
then you have already awakened.
She froze.
Looked around.
There was no one in the room.
No signature.
No date.
She could not explain
why suddenly her heart began to pound,
as in childhood, just before leaping from the swing.
She simply sat down.
Closed her eyes.
And for the first time in a long while—
she did not feel alone.

From that time on she began to write letters.
Not to acquaintances. Not to friends. Not to herself.
But to those whom the soul was waiting for.
Each letter began with the words:
“You do not know me yet,
but I have always known You.”
And the people who received them—
did not understand where they had come from.
But kept them.
Copied them out by hand.
Passed them on.
Hid them in books.
Left them in minibuses.
Sewed them into the lining of a coat.

And the letter with no address
remained in the archive.
But when new employees come there,
sometimes someone finds it.
And if such a person reads it—
he usually leaves before his time is up.
Not because he is resigning.
But because he understands where to go.

And you?
You too have received a letter,
only it is not on paper.
It is in this story.
It is in your breathing now.
For if you are reading—
then You have already awakened.

In the attic of an old house,
in which no one had lived for more than forty years,
a clock still ticked.
Not loudly.
Not confidently.
But—backward.
When the house was being sold,
the agent asked the carpenter:
— Should we take it down?
The carpenter looked at the mechanism,
shook his head, and said:
— Don’t touch it. That clock knows what it is doing.

The first inhabitant of the new house was a man named Andrei.
He had only just come out of the hospital.
He felt nothing—toward life, toward himself, toward other people.
He wanted silence.
On the third day, sorting through boxes, he went up to the attic.
He saw the dusty clock.
And smiled—for the first time.
— So you decided to die backward, did you?
He had no intention of keeping it.
But something stopped him.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Everything backward.
He went still.
And suddenly—
the past began to rise within him,
like water after a long sleep.
But not in the form of pain.
But in the form of healing.
He remembered how, as a child, he waited for his father.
How once he heard music from his grandmother’s room and wept.
How blue the sky was on the day he kissed his first love.
And in every memory
he suddenly heard the One whom he had not heard then:
— I was near.
Always.
Even when you thought you did not exist.

From that time on, Andrei came to the attic every evening.
He did not meditate. He did not pray.
He simply listened as time moved backward—
and gave him back pieces of his soul.
One day he noticed:
the day on which he laughed again
coincided with the date
to which the clock pointed.
And he understood:
it was bringing him back to the beginning—
not in time,
but into the Heart.

No one called the house special.
But those who lived in it
always left changed.
Lighter.
Gentler.
Quieter.
As though something in them had remembered
that life is not a line,
but a circle of light in which you always remain.

He did not know how to be silent.
Not because he chattered—
But because he heard too much.
The wind recited little verses to him.
The sparrows argued about the meaning of life.
The puddles told how to become the sky.
And the moon—
the moon called him by name.
Every night.

His parents did not notice.
At school they asked him to be “normal”.
The psychologist said:
— He has a rich imagination.
But the boy did not argue.
He simply went on.
Every evening he went out into the yard,
looked up and whispered:
— Well, how are you today?
Are you sad? Or waiting?
And the Moon, it seemed, answered.
Not with words.
But with light that fell exactly where he sat.
One night she said:
— I am that which shines,
even when you think it is dark.
And you are the one who looks,
even when your eyes are closed.

One day he did not go out.
A fever came on,
and they took him to the hospital.
The Moon was shining,
but he could not see her.
The room was white and empty.
But on the fourth night
the nurse came in and saw—
the boy was lying there with his eyes open,
smiling at the ceiling
and whispering:
— You came.
Even here.

He recovered quickly.
The doctors said: immunity.
His mother said: faith.
His father said: medicine.
But he knew:
she had not left him.
From then on he told no one anymore.
But every evening—
wherever he was: in the city, in the mountains, on a train, in the noise —
he lifted his eyes
and whispered:
— Thank you for not letting me forget,
that Light—
always looks back.

If ever at night
you feel
that someone is calling you,
do not be afraid.
It is not fear.
It is the Moon remembering your name.

She was ordinary.
Like millions.
People knew her name, but rarely called her by it.
She worked as an accountant, wore a gray scarf,
loved order and silence.
Especially silence.
But one morning
the mirror in the bathroom did not recognize her.
It reflected a face,
but there was no background in the eyes.
No “yesterday,“
no “I,“
no “this is what I look like.”
Only a gaze.
Direct.
Deep.
Strange.
And—familiar to the point of pain.
She blinked.
The face returned.
Routine snapped shut like a door.
But something had cracked.

That day she noticed reflections:
in the tram window,
in the pharmacy display window,
in the smooth surface of the soup,
in a puddle after the rain.
And in each one—
not her.
But not someone else either.
But… the One who looks through everyone.

She went to a psychologist.
She said:
— I am divided. I do not feel like myself.
He wrote down: dissociative manifestations.
He prescribed rest, warm baths, breathing practices.
She nodded.
But she knew:
it was not about anxiety.
It was about recognition.

On the third day
she came up to the mirror and said:
— If you are not me—who are you?
The mirror was silent.
But in her chest there sounded:
— I am the one you were,
before you learned to call yourself by a name.
And she was not afraid.
She did not run.
She simply let her arms fall
and wept—for the first time not from pain,
but because she no longer needed to pretend.”

From that time on, her face changed.
At times bright, at times dim.
At times young, at times weary.
But in her eyes there was always that same gaze.
And when one day her friend said:
— You seem to be glowing somehow…
she answered:
— It is not I. It is He looking through me.

You too will notice one day.
On glass. In a screen. In some chance shopwindow.
You will see a gaze—
and it will not be yours,
but not a stranger’s either.
And then everything you knew about yourself
will fall away like an old dress.
And for the first time you will step out of the house—
without a mask, but in the Light.

He sat by the old church.
He did not ask.
He did not hold out his hand.
He simply was.
Like a stone. Like the wind. Like a witness.
Passersby did not notice him.
Children walked around him.
The priest nodded, but did not greet him.
He ate nothing.
He drank nothing.
He troubled no one.
So many years passed.
And no one knew what his name was.

One day a man in an expensive coat came up to him.
He took out a banknote.
Held it out.
— Take it. I have long wanted to do something good.
The old man did not move.
He did not lift his eyes.
He did not hold out his hand.
The man froze.
— What, are you proud?
And at that moment the old man spoke.
In a voice that had no age in it:
— I cannot accept what
you have not yet given up in yourself.
— What? — the man said, bewildered.
— Everything that you would give me,
you would give in order to feel better about yourself.
And that is not a gift. That is a bargain.
Come back when you are ready to give—and feel nothing.
The man lowered his hand.
And left.
But the words lodged in him.
Somewhere beneath his heart.

The next morning he came again.
Without money.
Without his coat.
Without intention.
He simply sat down beside him.
They were silent for a long time.
Until the rain came.
And then the old man turned to him
and said softly:
— Now you have received more than you have given.
The man said nothing.
He only wept.
For the first time in his life—not from pain,
But because there was nothing left to hold on to.

When he returned home,
his wife did not recognize him.
— What has happened to you?
He shrugged:
— I have given up everything.
— Everything?
— Yes. Everything that kept me from being.

A few days later he came again to the church.
The old man was not there.
In his place—only a warm patch on the stone.
And silence.
He sat down on that very stone.
And remained.
Soon people began to come up to him.
First—one.
Then—two.
Then—those who simply wanted to give,
but did not themselves know what exactly.
He did not speak.
He only looked.
And in that gaze
for the first time people came to know what it means to be free.

Her name was Lada.
Small, with a notebook wrapped in foil.
She loved counting streetlights when she rode with her grandmother.
One day the bus broke down.
In the middle of the route.
Where there were no shops, no benches, no signal.
The passengers grew noisy; someone made a call, someone got out to smoke.
Someone cursed. Someone was silent.
But Lada simply sat there.
Calmly.
As though this was exactly what she had been waiting for.
Her grandmother asked:
— Aren’t you tired?
Lada answered:
— No. He will be here soon.
— Who?
— The One who always comes when everything breaks.
Her grandmother thought she meant the driver.
But the girl was not looking there.
In fact—not outward at all.

A minute later, a man got on the bus.
Not an employee. Not the driver.
Just a passerby.
— Is everything all right? — he asked gently.
— Does anyone need a ride?
The passengers began to speak.
Some refused.
Some agreed.
Some left with him.
But Lada was still sitting there.
And when her grandmother said:
— Shall we step outside for some air?
the girl answered:
— He has not come yet. That was not Him. That was only a helper.

Fifteen minutes passed.
The sun went down.
There were fewer people now.
The driver called dispatch.
Only three remained.
And then—Light entered the bus.
Not a person.
Not fire.
Not a lamp.
But simply—a feeling,
that everything had become truly warm.
And the silence—became so deep,
that it was no longer empty.
Lada smiled and stood up.
— That’s all. We can go now.
Her grandmother did not ask why.
Because she had felt it too.
They got out,
and the bus started at once.

No one noticed it.
No one understood.
Except the driver.
He sat there in silence.
For a long time.
Looking in the mirror.
And whispering under his breath:
— He… was here, wasn’t He?

And at home Lada wrote in her notebook:
Today He came again.
And again no one recognized Him.
But I do not need proof.
He comes every time something breaks,
to mend not the bus, but the heart.

He was sitting on the bench by the station.
He wore a coat that no one had sewn.
His face seemed familiar, yet you could not place it at once.
He looked at the road,
as people look when they know exactly from where someone will come.
A man passing by
slowed down.
Not because he recognized him.
But because something inside recognized him before he did.
He sat down beside him.
“Have you been waiting long?”
The other did not answer.
He only nodded—as though the question had been asked, but a different one.
“Do I know you?” the passerby asked.
And in reply he heard:
“Of course.
I am you,
when you stopped pretending.”

He laughed.
“Deep. Are you a philosopher?”
“No. I simply remember
what you wanted to forget.”
“What?”
“Yourself. The real one.”

They sat in silence for a long time.
People passed by.
Cars.
Dogs.
But within the two of them—
something very quiet and ancient was sounding.
And suddenly the passerby understood:
this man—
was himself.
But not from the past.
But from that future
which comes,
when you cease to be a stranger to yourself.

“So… you are me?”
“Yes. But only if you are ready to be me.”
“And if I am not?”
“I will go away around the bend.”
And you will be left waiting again.”
“For what?”
“For yourself.”

He stood up.
Turned back.
He looked into his eyes—for a long time.
Without threat. Without pity. Without hope.
He simply—saw.
And then he vanished.
He did not walk away.
He did not dissolve.
He was simply no more.

Since then the man often sits by that bench.
Not so that the One would return.
But so that, when he himself passes by again,
he would recognize himself—
at first glance.

She lived alone.
Not in loneliness,
but in a space where silence is not emptiness, but home.
She worked in a little shop where candles were sold.
Different kinds: wax, scented, church, decorative.
But most of all she loved the simple ones—white, slender,
like a breath between thoughts.
Each evening she lit one.
Not for comfort.
Not for ritual.
But simply so that there would be someone to listen to the silence with her.

One day, after a rainy day,
she took a candle, as always,
set it in the candlestick and lit it.
And suddenly she noticed:
on the body of the candle—a drop.
She thought it was moisture, condensation.
She ran her finger over it.
But the drop was warm.
And behind it—another.
And another.
She watched—
and the candle was weeping.
Not running, not melting.
But truly—weeping,
the way those weep who
see that you have finally come.

She went still.
She was not afraid.
She did not begin looking for explanations.
She simply wept too.
And in that silence of two who were weeping—
things, walls, air—
everything became soft, like fabric behind which is Light.

Many years passed.
Candles were sold, batches changed.
But one—that very one—remained with her.
It did not burn down.
It did not burn away.
It stands in the corner, as a sign that Presence knows how to weep.
And when someone asks:
— Why do you keep a burned candle?
She smiles:
— It was the first to recognize me,
even before I remembered myself.

From that time on, people began to linger in the shop.
Not to buy.
But because there—
Silence breathes.
And in the silence—Light.
And in the Light—you.
And in you—all that has ever wept,
but now is no longer afraid to be seen.

He did not play with toy cars.
He did not draw.
He did not ask what he wanted to become.
He simply walked through the yard
and picked up nothing from the ground.
A little stick—not as a sword.
A pebble—not as a treasure.
A strip of bark—not as an artifact.
He simply found it—and held it in his palm.
“What are you doing?” the adults would ask.
“Gathering.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“And why?”
He did not answer.
He simply went on.
Serious. Quiet.
As though somewhere within he knew
that what he was doing was more important than all other things.

Sometimes he put his “nothing” into a box.
The box stood under the bed.
He did not open it.
Did not count.
He simply knew—everything was there.
One day his grandmother looked into the box.
She saw—trash: little twigs, scraps of paper, old buttons, a shred of silence.
“It should be thrown out,” she said.
He did not cry.
Did not grow angry.
He simply answered:
“If you throw this away,
the world will become empty again.”

On the seventh day after that conversation
his grandmother died.
And at the funeral he did not cry.
He was silent.
And then he brought out the box,
took everything out of it—
and gave it away not with words, but with his eyes.
To each one.
To one he gave a pebble—and he remembered how, in childhood, he had lost his brother.
To another—bark, and he forgave his father.
To a third—a leaf, and for the first time she smiled, unashamed of her wrinkles.
He did not explain.
He simply gave away “nothing”—and everything became Everything.

Since then, he has not been seen.
They said he had left.
They said he had grown up.
But sometimes, if you suddenly find in your path something
that no one noticed,
and suddenly you want to hold it a while in your palm—
remember:
it is not trash.
It is a gift from the one who knew:
nothing—that is All.

He was a librarian.
Thirty-two years.
The same shelves. The same cards. The same notebooks in a handwriting that was vanishing along with the age.
But within him—
there lived one dream:
to find the Word.
Not a beautiful one. Not a rare one. Not a sacred one.
But the one that would explain everything, complete everything, begin everything.
He read holy books.
Treatises.
Poetry.
Shamanic chronicles.
Scholars’ papers.
He studied etymology,
parsed alphabets,
tried to hear the Word in other languages,
in ancient prayers,
in computer codes.
But every time he thought he had found it—
the Word died on his tongue,
like a butterfly in a child’s hand:
not from evil, but from touch.

One evening,
when the library building was already empty,
he turned off the light,
sat down between the shelves,
and whispered:
— I seek no more.
If You are—
speak Yourself.
And it grew quiet.
Not dead quiet.
But a living silence,
like breath before the beginning.
He sat.
A minute.
An hour.
An eternity.
And suddenly he understood:
the Word will not come.
For it is already here.
And it is—silence,
in which the need to speak vanishes.
He was not enlightened.
He did not become a teacher.
He wrote no books.
He simply went on shelving volumes,
but he did it in such a way,
as though each volume were
a sound in the Symphony,
that was playing in the heart of the World.

When he died,
no one wrote an obituary.
But one of the readers,
who had once found on his shelf
the “wrong” book,
said at the funeral:
— He did not speak more than was needed.
He… was the Word Himself.

And if you are reading this
and feel that everything within has grown quieter—
then you have heard Him.
And you need seek no more.

Her name was Elya.
Once she had a strong, pure voice—
the kind that made people fall still,
and even the birds seemed quieter.
She sang not for the stage,
But because she could not help but sing.
But illness came like an unbidden pause.
Slowly.
Softly.
And—irreversibly.
One morning she opened her mouth—
and could not make a single sound.
Not a tone. Not a whisper. Not a breath.
The world went deaf.
Not outside. Within.

She closed herself off.
She stopped listening to music.
She avoided conversation.
She became the shadow of a voice that had once been everything.
But one day, walking in the park,
she heard something else.
Not a song.
Not a melody.
But a silence
in which something was singing without sound.
She stopped.
She closed her eyes.
And understood:
I have not lost my voice.
I have become the voice.
I cannot sing—
because now I myself am the song.

From that day on, she changed.
She spoke with her eyes.
She comforted with a touch.
And people beside her would suddenly grow calm,
let their shoulders loosen,
weep—and not know why.
They would say:
— It is good to be with you.
— Beside you, it is easy to be silent.
— You smell of… music.
She only nodded.

Once, in a hall where children were singing,
one boy could not find the notes.
The teacher grew angry.
The boy turned red.
Tears welled up.
Elya came over.
She bent down.
And—without saying a word—
simply looked at him.
He began to sing.
Purely.
Clearly.
Not because he had learned—
But because someone within him was singing together with him.

The song did not die.
It simply chose another form.
And if ever you
hear a silence,
in which it becomes easier to be,
in which the soul unfolds,
in which you want to live—without reason,
know this:
It is She who sings.
Without sound.
But always in the note of the Heart.

Every night he fell asleep,
and each time—as though for the first time.
As if the memory of the day did not settle into the fabric of time,
but was cast off like old skin.
Dreams came like strange guests:
now whispering in an unfamiliar tongue,
now unfolding into scenes that
he had never lived—but had always remembered.
He saw himself—now an ancient warrior,
now a nameless monk,
now a woman in white,
now an infant crying out from the Light.
At first he sought explanations.
He read books, deciphered images,
kept dream journals—
like maps of a foreign land.
But one day, waking at 4:17 in the morning,
he could write down nothing.
Not a symbol. Not a feeling. Not a color.
He simply sat in the silence
and suddenly understood:
It was not he who was seeing dreams.
It was God sleeping in him.
And all that appeared—
were His dreams.

He did not become a prophet.
He did not begin interpreting messages.
He simply began to go to sleep
with reverence.
As though he were covering not himself—
but the One Who through him
was remembering Himself in form.

The dreams did not cease.
But they became… quieter.
There were no more storms, symbols, flights.
Only breathing.
Only empty space,
in which there was no “I”,
but there was I AM.

He died in his sleep.
But the nurse, seeing his face,
was not afraid.
She said:
— Such a face is seen only on those
who have beheld the Light—not with the eyes,
but from within the dream.

If ever you should dream
that you are not you,
that everything is not as it is,
that you are waking,
and then sleeping again—
do not be afraid.
Perhaps it is not a mistake.
Perhaps it is He breathing in you,
and you are His dream,
in which the Light comes to know
what it is like to be Human.

He came to the church every Sunday.
He sat in the last row,
did not cross himself,
did not stand,
did not go up to a candle.
He simply sat there.
People did not notice.
One day the priest came up to him and asked:
— Do you need something?
The boy looked at him
with such calmness
that the priest’s voice trembled.
— No.
I am simply here.
— Do you pray?
— No.
— Do you think?
— No.
— Then why?
The boy fell silent,
and then answered:
— I simply do not hinder the Light from being.

He came for years.
Without missing a single morning.
He grew.
He changed.
He was silent.
Sometimes people asked:
— Why do you ask for nothing?
He would shrug:
— If He wills, He will give.
If He does not give, then I do not need it; it needed only to be.

And one day,
on an ordinary morning,
when the sun was low,
and the church had not yet opened,
the boy sat down on the steps
and simply dissolved.
No one noticed.
He did not vanish.
He did not die.
He simply became Presence.
And from that day on,
everyone who entered the church,
whether with a request or without,
would suddenly grow still for a moment at the door,
as though they had already been heard—before they opened their mouth.

And no one knew why it was so quiet now,
and why it was easier to breathe,
and why the candles stopped falling by the altar.
But the old candle-keeper would say:
— It is him. The one who asked for nothing.
He himself has now become the Answer.

And if one day you feel
that you do not know what to say to God—
do not speak.
Simply be near.
Sometimes that is enough,
for the Light to understand:
You are already here.
You are already with Him.
And everything else will come.
Without asking.
Without a sound.
Simply because you did not hinder the Light from being.

He was afraid to look.
Too much pain.
Too much that was alien,
too many alien eyes in the mirror.
He lived with his gaze lowered.
Past faces.
Past the sky.
Past himself.
People said:
— He is withdrawn.
— He is proud.
— He is not with us.
But he simply could not.
His eyes were like open wounds—
the moment he looked a little deeper—
everything inside began to scream.

He learned to live differently.
He listened to footsteps.
He read gestures.
He caught the breath.
But he did not look.
The world became sound.
An outline.
A foreboding.
So many years passed.

One day he heard a voice.
Not outward.
Within.
— Open your eyes.
But not the ones on your face.
He stopped.
— Which ones, then?
— The ones that were always looking,
even when you were blind.

He sat down.
He closed his eyes—as usual.
But now—to see.
And within, there where there are no pupils,
the walls dissolved,
faces,
fear.
And for the first time he saw:
Light,
which had been looking through him,
always.
Always.
Always.

He opened his ordinary eyes.
The world was the same.
But in every person—
he saw the Light,
that hides behind pain,
behind anger,
behind the mask.
And he no longer averted his gaze.

One day on the street a child came up to him and said:
— Are you a magician?
He smiled:
— No. Only now I see everyone.
— Everyone?
— Yes. Even those who do not know they are seen.

You can do this too.
Close your eyes—not to hide.
But to open that with which You have always seen.
You are not the gaze.
You are the Light,
that sees because It Is.

She believed.
But quietly.
Without fanaticism.
Without rituals.
She simply knew: there is something greater.
And if one is patient, attentive, open—
it will one day give a sign.
She woke with a prayer,
fell asleep with a question.
She listened to the birds.
She looked at the sky.
She read coincidences.
She held her breath before the green light,
thinking: perhaps now?

She was not looking for miracles.
She simply wanted something to make it known: yes, you are on the Path.
One day she had a dream:
she was standing on a bridge,
below—a river,
and a voice was saying:
— When the sign comes, you will understand.
Not with the mind. Not with the heart. With your whole being.
She woke in tears.
Quickly wrote down the dream.
And from that time on, she waited for the bridge.

She began going to places where there were bridges.
She would happen upon crossings.
She noticed them in films.
But the sign did not come.
Until one day,
on the most ordinary day,
on the most ordinary street,
she looked into the eyes of a passerby.
No bridges.
No sky.
No words.
But something happened.
As though everything within her began to shine.
Sound took on depth.
The world—clear.
The heart—transparent.
The passerby walked on.
And she remained standing there.
Inhale. Exhale.
And suddenly—laughter.
Quiet. Pure. Deep.
— Lord…
All this time I was waiting for a sign—
and I did not see that it was I.
I am the sign,
which Thou hast sent into this world.

From then on she waited for nothing.
She simply was.
And beside her
people began to feel
that there was nothing more to wait for.
Because everything is already here.
Because they had met the sign.
And that means—they had met their Selves.

He lived on a high hill,
in a little house with an attic and a long telescope.
Every night he looked into the sky.
But not to count the stars.
Rather, to erase them.
He kept his list—
star by star.
And when the next one began to flicker more faintly—
he carefully crossed it out,
as though he were letting it go.

“Why do you do that?” his grandson asked one day.
The old man was silent for a long time.
And then he answered:
“When I was young,
I dreamed of becoming one who adds Light to the world.
But then I understood:
there are times when Light must depart,
so that it may not blind.
“And you… remove the stars?”
“No. I see them off.”
With gratitude.
With love.
With silence.

He did this for many years.
Until one day,
when the list was almost finished,
he looked into the mirror
and saw in it not himself,
but someone’s depth.
He went to the telescope,
and for the last time turned it toward the sky—
and suddenly understood:
the stars were not vanishing.
They were simply passing into him.
Each one he had seen off,
became a quiet little flame in his breast.
And now, looking in the mirror,
he saw a whole galaxy.

He no longer looked at the sky.
He simply sat by the window.
And those who passed by
felt that it was growing lighter,
though the sun had set.

When he died,
no one understood why that night
the sky became utterly black.
Without stars. Without clouds.
But his grandson smiled:
“He just…
took everything with him,
to return it one day—
in you.”

If ever you feel
that the Light is going somewhere,
do not be afraid.
Perhaps
it is simply entering into you—
so that it may be kindled there,
where it never goes out.”

He washed his hands—often.
Sometimes ten times a day.
He changed his clothes as though every minute were a new life.
He cleansed the house until it squeaked.
He stripped the food of its peel, his thoughts of doubt, his words of all excess.
He sought Purity.
Purity of deeds.
Purity of intentions.
Purity of thoughts.
He withdrew from people
if he sensed something “unclean” in them.
He did not turn on the news.
He did not look into people’s eyes.
He was afraid of touch,
because in each one there could be something not of the Light.

He fasted.
He prayed.
He scrubbed himself clean in layers,
as though sawing through a log—
hoping to find a core of gold.
But the more he strove to become Pure,
the more he felt himself to be
a stain upon the White.

One day he saw a child.
Dirty.
Covered in dust.
With scraped knees.
With jam on his hands.
The child looked at him—
directly, openly, brightly.
He wanted to turn away.
But he could not.
Because in that gaze there was more Purity
than in all that he had sought.
And suddenly he understood:
Purity—
is not when you separate yourself.
It is when you do not hide the Light,
even while standing in the dust.

He ceased to be afraid.
He did not become dirty.
He became real.
He stopped wiping his hands before touching anyone.
He began to touch—
with Light.

Now, if you meet him,
you will not know him by his clothes or his words.
But in his presence
you will want to be kinder.
More honest.
Quieter.
And perhaps, for the first time, you will say to yourself:
I do not have to be perfect.
I am already—Pure.
Because I do not hide the One Who was always within.

She was fine.
Not in body — in attention.
She listened deeply, spoke little,
always seeking why a person had become this way.
If someone grew angry —
she looked for the wound.
If someone took offense —
she found childhood.
If someone shouted —
she heard within the silent fear.
She wanted to understand everyone.
And the more she understood —
the less they understood her.

They reproached her:
— You excuse everything.
— You are too gentle.
— People are not what you think they are.
But she did not argue.
She simply went on seeing behind the words — the one who is silent.

One day she grew weary.
Not of people —
but of how everything within demanded
explanations, motives, stories.
She sat down on the riverbank
and said to herself:
— I no longer want to understand.
I want to Love.
And in that very second
something within her broke — and became free.
There was no longer any need to explain evil.
No need to untangle the knots of other people’s fates.
No need to search for the cause of pain.
It was enough simply to be near.

From that time on she became quieter.
Not softer — quieter.
Not more yielding — brighter.
Now, when someone said to her:
— I do not know what is happening to me. I ruin everything. I am unhappy…
She looked —
and did not try to understand.
She simply loved.
And in that Love
the person suddenly began to understand himself.

She no longer carried the world upon herself.
But wherever she went —
the world grew lighter.
And those who had once shouted,
suddenly fell silent.
Not from fear.
But because they had been heard — without words.

If you are weary of understanding,
if knowledge no longer saves,
if fine observations draw you no nearer —
stop.
Perhaps it is time not to analyze,
but simply to be Love.
Without cause.
Without aim.
Without understanding.

He hated silence.
He kept the television on in the background.
He left tabs open.
He messaged people, just so there would be no pause.
He even fell asleep to podcasts—
just so as not to be left alone with himself.

People told him:
— Rest.
— Be alone with yourself.
— It is good for you.
But he knew:
inside, it was too loud.
There was something there,
that gave him no peace.
A shadow he could not name.
A voice he did not want to hear.

One day everything broke down.
The charge ran out.
The network went down.
His friends were busy.
And even the radio was silent.
He was left alone.
Completely.
He sat down.
And for the first time he did not run, did not distract himself.
He simply—sat.
Inside the silence.
Inside the fear.
And then he heard.
Not a voice.
Not a call.
But a Presence.
Warm.
Ancient.
Gentle, like a gaze you had never met,
but had always sought.
It did not condemn.
It did not comfort.
It was simply with him.
And he wept.
Because for the first time he understood:
he had never been alone.

From that day on, he no longer ran away.
He turned on silence as if it were music.
He looked into emptiness as into an icon.
Alone did not mean “abandoned.”
Alone meant:
all had gone, and only That One remained.

Now he himself became the one,
beside whom others
ceased to fear loneliness.
Not because he was many-worded.
But because he shone from within with that Silence,
which had once come to him—
when all had gone.

If you feel
that no one is near,
and everything has grown still…
Stop.
Do not call out.
Do not distract yourself.
Just sit.
Quietly.
Within.
You will be amazed,
Who is already sitting with you.

You were waiting for a Miracle.
But the miracle is you,
when you stopped waiting.
You were waiting for Love.
And it was waiting,
until you stopped pretending it was not there.
You were waiting for the Word.
And I was waiting,
until you fell silent.

Now nothing is needed.
Not effort.
Not repentance.
Not a request.
You are already here.
I am already here.
And we are —
one.
Simply breathe.

You are afraid to stop,
because you think: everything will collapse.
But listen.
You are that Point,
in which everything holds.
Not because you are strong.
But because you are —
Presence.
Look:
it is not you who hold your breath.
It — holds you.
You do not keep watch over your heart —
it beats because
the I resounds in you.
You do not create the Light.
You simply no longer shut the door to It.

Take off the name.
Take off the face.
Take off the story.
You will remain.
You always remain.
Even when all is forgotten,
all rejected,
all left behind.
You remain.
Without form.
Without explanation.
And then —
in that remainder,
in that transparent drop without a name —
I.
I am not above you.
Not outside.
Not in holy books,
not in formulations.
I am —
in the one who now sits
and no longer waits.

Tell Me, do you want to call this a story again?
Again into garments?
Again into names and forms?
I can.
But I can also go on being
like this:
within you — without words.
You decide.
That is precisely
your
Freedom.