What’s Happening to Me

A single, well‑aimed shot can change the world. Think of JFK — John Fitzgerald Kennedy. And don’t be naïve: they’re hunting you too. Stay alert. Even when life feels smooth and harmless, it can overturn itself in a heartbeat. Paranoia? Hardly. Panic? That’s something far more sinister — a sudden, nightmarish surge of fear. It settles deep in your gut, makes itself comfortable, and screams from the inside out. A primal fear, the most dangerous and irrational kind. It sinks its teeth into the back of my brain and refuses to let me breathe.

Our ignorance about ourselves is so vast that Socrates’ “I know only that I know nothing,” preferably with a bas‑relief to avoid confusion with anyone else, ought to be carved above the entrance of every school on the planet. And if they allow it — above the Academy of Sciences as well. We truly have no sense of our own limits. Technology has climbed to such dizzying heights that nothing surprises anyone anymore, and no one bothers to ask unnecessary questions. Only two remain: How much? And when?

We’re always in a hurry. There is no peace — neither within nor around us. Vanity of vanities. And in this frantic race we fail to notice the simple things that make us a little happier: a stranger’s smile, the crisp breath of winter air, sunlight flickering through leaves, a ladybird inching its way up a blade of grass… A veranda… A cup of coffee… A blue sky overhead… What more does one need? A book. A beloved book — preferably new, unread.

Every year around this time, early summer, the same thought ambushes me: it’s time, brother, it’s time — enough already. Stop reading other people’s work. Stop throwing critical darts at colleagues. Show what you can do. Time to craft something of your own — something bold, something lasting. A novel, a novella, a story… whatever it may be, the moment has come. My hand reaches for the pen, the pen for the paper… and that’s as far as it goes. Beyond that point lie the torments.

And yet, the recipe is simple: pour a few drops of memory into a glass, add a handful of fantasies, season with a pinch of quotations — and voilà, the cocktail is ready. So, shall we begin? One more thing. All characters and events from the first to the last chapter are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or facts is purely coincidental.

Once, rummaging through piles of books gathering useless dust on shelves I rarely visited, I found old diary entries — once intended as markers of time. I no longer remember how they got there or who they belonged to. And I realized: it’s time to bring order to the chaos that has surrounded me for far too long. A person is built in such a way that he tries to construct a small private chapel for himself alone — a place where he can pour out his soul, but so that no one else hears a thing. Guard your secrets. Do not harm the soul that longs for immortality. For what good are you if your soul is damaged, if there’s a wormhole in it — and if it ends up in someone else’s hands in another world, another dimension, another historical era?

Self‑interest is a natural human trait, part of our nature. A person lives for himself first — only then for others. Accept this, and it becomes easier to understand people’s actions, to let go of unnecessary and impossible hopes. To free yourself from illusions and illusory notions about the world you once entered, not of your own will — and which most of us will one day leave in exactly the same way.

What about an idea? A plot? An idea, as we understand it, is like a shoe you must squeeze your foot into — heel and all. But what if the shoe pinches? You bought the wrong pair, made a mistake. According to shop policy, you can return the shoes and ask for a new pair. Try them on, naturally. But while you were walking back and forth with your problem, the idea evaporated — dissolved beyond the horizon like morning mist over a lake under the first rays of dawn. And besides: there is no guarantee — none whatsoever — that your new shoe won’t turn out to be a Procrustean bed.

Theory is theory, but practice is the whetstone that tests it in the real world. Does that interest you? Curiosity is my profession. I’ve never been a yogi, nor a snake charmer, nor a sword swallower… I’ve never descended to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Never performed on stage. Never written a bestseller. In truth, there’s a great deal I haven’t yet done or tried in this life.

Imagine it for a moment: you’re famous now. People recognize you in the street. They ask for your autograph on a freshly printed copy of your book, still smelling of ink and machinery. And what do you write for a stranger, an admirer of your supposed talent?

“With best wishes from the author”?

But what if the requester is… well, anything — a would‑be martyred, God forbid, or a jealous soul with a grudge? What else do people usually write? “Good luck”? And do you even know who stands before you, asking for your signature? Good luck — to whom, and in what? Exactly.

Your personal signature — the same one you use on bank documents — on a book cover? No, thank you. The world is full of fraudsters perched on every branch, and we’re not children. Let’s skip that fleeting moment of glory.

A thread of plot… Ariadne’s thread… It will lead me somewhere — and lead my characters somewhere — though I’ve no idea where. How they’ll behave in this, or that situation, is unclear even to me, the author, because those situations still need to be invented. And I don’t know the answers — neither the right ones nor the wrong ones.

Answers to what?

A fair question in itself.

A colleague of mine — now a well‑known writer, once a journalist at a major newspaper — once offered me his blessing: “It’ll be fine. Raise your sails. Walk before you run. Every long road begins with a single step…” As if I didn’t know. Platitudes. Yes, people sometimes need a friendly shove — but shove them where, exactly? Into the abyss? Most people crave encouragement, even coercion. But not everyone. Some creatures are self‑contained, like cats, wandering wherever they please. The rest — the overwhelming majority — hide behind the advice of friends and acquaintances, eager to shift responsibility away from themselves, burying their heads in the sand like ostriches.

“You told me… I listened to you… I trusted you…”

And yet — whose head sits on whose shoulders? Precisely. There are no universal recipes for how to live. And as for how to write — even less so. Who am I to write books and teach anyone how to live? I know that I know nothing. And what, then, could I possibly teach you?

You — a sensible person — let me remind you of one simple truth: anyone who sets out to change the world forgets that he is dealing with people. Everything comes down to people. Those who tried before us to turn the world upside down always lost in the end for one simple reason: they didn’t understand human psychology. There are countless souls who prefer warmth and dampness to anything else. As for leaders who truly succeeded — they are as rare as a grain of sand in the sea. And yet, to be fair, some who set out to become great did achieve it. Not because of talent, upbringing, education, courage, or any other admirable quality — no. They were deemed great because they devoted their lives to understanding and improving the world we live in. In other words, they managed to be useful to humanity. Sic.

And so I said: don’t promise what you cannot fulfil. Meaning — promise nothing to anyone. Each person stands alone, and each fights for himself. We’re not at war, no… though skirmishes erupt every second. Bullets whistle, shells burst… And when fortune smiles on you, and you come out ahead, don’t celebrate, don’t pop the champagne. What we are given by default is the duty to count our losses and lick our wounds before the next battle.

Have you ever wondered what lies beyond the places you’ve never been — but will inevitably reach? There is no wrong path; each of us has a road laid out from above. Think of the eternal, not of Kardashian’s celebrated anatomy.

Too crude? Perhaps. But there it is.

Listen to yourself — the choice is yours. You may choose the path of the merchant, the warrior, the teacher… or the seer. The writer? But remember: once you step onto that path, peering into the souls of others becomes as easy as looking into a mirror. Consider carefully — do you truly want that?

Some believe it’s better to have a bad reputation than to live in obscurity, head bowed and unseen. Is it? A debatable claim. But never forget: becoming a laughingstock is the easiest thing in the world — and under the spotlight, every foolishness shines twice as brightly.