Oleksandr Bandurchenko

When I was little, I was certain there was a truth about the world that no one was telling me yet.

Not a conspiracy. Not a secret. Just — I was still little. I'll grow up, and one of the adults will take me aside, close the door, and say: «Well, Sasha. Now you're ready. Here's how it all really works.»

I waited for that conversation. Seriously. I thought that at some point — maybe at sixteen, maybe at twenty — they would reveal to me what all adults apparently already know but for some reason keep quiet about.

Then I was sixteen. Then twenty. Then thirty. No one called me aside. No one closed the door. No one said anything.

Since no one came — I started gathering it myself. Piece by piece. Life kept throwing me into people who knew something — each one their own.

The Church gave me what no laboratory ever will: a joy that lifts your hands and makes tears flow without reason. An inspiration for which there is no formula. I still walk into a charismatic hall when I can — and every time I feel the same thing I felt at twenty.

Science taught me not to take my own word for it. To check. To ask: «What if I'm wrong?» That's a hard gift, uncomfortable, but without it everything else turns into self-deception.

The esotericists — strange, stubborn people kicked by everyone. Scientists call them charlatans. The Church calls them devil's henchmen. And they walk their own road, search, make mistakes, search again. I like their stubbornness. Their enthusiasm. Their willingness to look foolish for the sake of finding.

All these people shaped me. I never outgrew any of them. I never walked away from any of them. They each gave me a part of what I was looking for. But a part is a part. And the boy inside was waiting for the whole.

And at some point I understood a simple thing. No one will say it. Not because they don't know. But because it's not the kind of knowledge that can be said. It can only be seen for yourself. And then — maybe — shown to others. Not explained. Shown.

This book is my attempt.

But behind every door, in every circle, in every book — I kept recognizing the same thing. Something identical. The same heat, the same warmth — only called by different names and explained differently.

It is about the fact that behind all doors — there is one fire.

I never managed to find an adult who would take me through that door. So I went on my own. And wrote down what I saw. For the boy I was. And for you — if you recognized him.

Let's go.