For years, I guarded these pages, hesitant to let them see the light. Now, you hold my first book in your hands. The second waits in the wings, long adrift like a spectral ship navigating the seas of my heart. There are those who will find joy – yes, joy – in knowing this book has come to life. They will wait, with reverence, for what follows.
What is this book? Who is its hero, and why will it be read? A book is first and foremost needed by the one who writes it. Through writing, we traverse the labyrinth of words and uncover fragments of ourselves. Is this a tale? A poem? A legend? A truth? Chaos or the final sigh of a fading philosophy? The essence of life lies in learning to listen and to see, to create and to feel, to remain steadfast and true to oneself, in harmony with the infinite.
In the quest for truth, humanity often imprisons itself within “black squares,” forgetting that life flows like a river, where no drop ever repeats. Fear twists the mind, renders paths barren and winding, and makes life seem hollow. Even a spark of fear can ignite flames that raze entire cities. What is this book about? Who needs it? Perhaps it is for those who love me, or for those longing to be heard. Nature gives everything to humanity. Life is the art of preserving, understanding, nurturing, and creating – with warmth in the soul and fire in the heart.
Heart – how often I invoke that word, as though no other could carry my meaning. Yet it is not so. All I write, all I feel, is shaped by the works and life of Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky. He is my eternal teacher; I declared as much during my thesis defence and have never rescinded those words.
One evening in Saint Petersburg, after a literary event, an elderly woman approached me, her hand trembling as it grasped mine. “My child,” she said, “thank you for existing.” That evening, I was needed. And there are others too, those who need my words, my verses, as companions to their solitude. I know what it is to feel the rhythm of a heart – not from the elation of love, but from the aching void of loss, or the fear of losing something irrevocably. In such moments, I do not wish to be alone. My heart is sincere, and sincerity is the pillar that sustains not only the one who holds it but those around them.