Chapter 12. Ephemeral Waves.

March 12, 1938

"Looking out the window of a three-story apartment building, twenty-one-year-old writer Jérémy Drapeaux suddenly noticed a small dark clot far away in the sky, most likely of an inspired matter, which to a significant extent resembled an impressive-sized bittern or even some other bird of a similar kind: in these minutes, it was characteristically distinguished among the sky-blue spaces by a long sharp beak, a neck no less long than that beak, and also an extremely well-fed dense body, on the area of which a certain characteristic white spot was very naturally located. Having already spent a considerable amount of time on languid reflections about one of the plot twists of his new novella, Jérémy Drapeaux, in the name of seeking rest and, most importantly, inspiration, in a single moment decided to distract himself a little from the thoughts that so painfully tormented his intellectual flesh, and therefore immediately imagined that he himself was this bird that was swiftly carrying its flesh, thoughts, and feelings somewhere—it is curious, what drives this bird, what thoughts and feelings does it experience during flight and how exactly does it look at one or another event, fact, and space of the sublunary world? To a certain extent, its gaze is still similar to the gaze of other living beings that exist in this world in one way or another, for there is life in the gaze of all living things, but, nevertheless, despite this, its gaze is exceptional, unique, original, and independent—often looking at this world from the height of its own flight, much in this world seems small, insignificant, and insignificant to it: it seems so only until the very moment when it sees all the previously studied distant objects and states up close. In addition, the uniqueness of its gaze also lies in the fact that it is able to see what, for example, is inaccessible to other representatives of the animal world—for example, a fish sees what birds cannot see underwater, earthworms, these owners of Hess's cells, see what a fish cannot see underground, and so on to infinity, to a small atom and molecule. Curious! So what did this bird see?

Here, before its eyes, at the crown, near one of the bare trees, lovers are present—a gentle kiss leaves a warm imprint on the cheeks of the object of adoration: what does this bird care about them? what do they care about this bird? It's a cold day today, the wind burns their faces a little, but they are not cold—they are warmed by their feelings and hearts for each other: their flesh trembles, but it trembles not from the cold, but from the abundance of such a nectar-like nature of feelings. Curious! Does that bird, whether with its mind or soul, realize what love is? Can it experience love, friendship, compassion in the context of such an understanding that is inherent in a person, and not an animal—in the way a person sees and feels them? Perhaps for it, love is the sun's rays, in the bliss of which it straightens its unique wings? Or, perhaps, love is the search for the sun's rays in the unsightly darkness of the clouds? No! There are no feelings in it—it is driven only by instincts: a person and a bird are mentally and physically as far from each other as they are now far from each other in the category of distance.

Here, a little further away, a small, of course, in the understanding of this bird, hardworking farmer with special diligence sows wheat—does this bird care what this person is doing? Its mind is not able to give it the opportunity to understand that thanks to the actions of this farmer now, that bird will subsequently be able to fill its belly with this wheat in a very natural way? It is not subject to analysis and forecasting in the sense in which it is available to a person—both the bird and the person, despite this, analyze and predict, each in their own paradigm of existence, first of all, only in the name of satisfying their natural needs. Amazing! And yet, that bird, as well as the wheat grown by the farmer, have no idea who their creator is—they also do not understand who their killer is: it should be noted that this is also inaccessible to any person, for only he who is sighted can see. Thousands of generations of ancestors of this grain lived their unique life, just as thousands of generations of ancestors of this bird showed the sublunary world the givenness of their being—in this second and at this moment, it was these descendants who represented the interests of their own families in the great web of times. The same way this bird flew and its ancestors flew, who had a somewhat different bodily form, but, like their descendants, they saw the same thing under the sun—life and death, summer and winter, the moon and the stars.

In the same way, people existed in this world—few of them turned their gaze to the true meaning and essence of this world: many of them frantically yearned to be deceived, completely basing their worldview only on the opinions of other people, as well as on rumors—are such people capable of seeing? Of course, to some extent—yes: in the very world that was boundless, they were only a small grain of sand, in the two-dimensional world, they were and always remained children. Having existed for a considerable number of years in their current life, in the lives of their descendants and ancestors, they never realized what the word 'see' means—what exactly you feel when you see, and what exactly you think about at that moment: of course, they would not see in this bird more than just a bird—they did not see its creator in it. Until the very moment when that bird first flapped its wing in its life, it was only an inactive combination of perishable matter and form—life, on the other hand, is given to it only by action, for it allows it to fulfill and realize the destiny prepared for its nature: so, it can live and be inactive, but then it will be considered by the other representatives of the animal world, including people, to be weak, defective, sick, not the way everyone else is—at this moment, most, but not all, have a question… why was it created? But is its own action in this case what is being discussed? Perhaps it is some kind of a special kind of bird, the life of which is characterized not by its own action, but by the actions of other clusters of inspired matter? Perhaps its essence is something like a statue or an icon, the nature of which is enclosed in inaction, even if they are created by action, where their purpose is fulfilled only when they interact with other clots of living dust? So, a statue or an icon is no more than pieces of matter, unless the essence of other people affects their nature—being initially lifeless, they acquire life only with the assistance of initially living grains of dust, which subsequently are transformed into lifeless ones in a very natural way? So who is to blame for everything? So what is to blame for everything? The greatest benefit from those who are continuously in the clouds, of course, is obtained by the one who also created these clouds…