Vysheslav Filevsky - Tales Written by the Dying in Awe

© Vysheslav Filevsky, 2018

ISBN 978-5-4490-9909-9

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

This book is by a Russian-speaking Brazilian author and contains short stories and fairy tales for adults. They are about the grace of love and awe of the great Inconceivable and its creation. They are also about the way that consciously fostering these two ideas could create a universal world religion of consensual reconciliation. But who on earth earnestly wants that ?

The author asked me, his friend, to write the foreword to his book.

Feeling myself highly flattered, first of all, I praise his commitment to start and his ability to finish this work, which is a philosophical and psychological one that reveals his sensitivity and knowledge of life.

The author is an idealist.

The well-selected artwork is expressive.

The author is a true friend of the Russian nation and a native speaker of the charming Russian tongue, a language as rich and motley as the people who created it.

– Pedro Sergio Lozar

Belo Horizonte, Brazil, June 2015

My spiritual experience is only mine.

But perhaps its representation

Will amuse a bored reader.

In the spiritual space surrounding earth, I would say there exists a bodiless, omnipresent spider. He encounters every soul with a cobweb of words, notions, and ideas. In this way, he objectivizes heaven’s will for humankind and the earth. This is why people comply fully with their predestined fates, leading their histories to their completions. They keep performing them involuntarily. These people are inhabitants.

Following its divine fancy, heaven loves some souls more than it loves others. To them it grants the right to thin the spider’s cobweb and communicate with it – with heaven – directly. There are very few such souls. On earth, they are despicable derelicts.

The souls that make the cobweb thin are busy with loving worship of inconceivable heaven. And they obey destiny – that which is written about them in the Book of Life. Such souls, as well as the souls of common inhabitants, make no impact on the march of history. Nothing can prevent the wreckage of civilization, the destruction of the planet. After all, everything born must inevitably die. This is the way it is determined by inconceivable heaven.

These parables, which were told by an old hermit and recorded by me, are stories about souls worshiping heaven with love.

Author’s note: the pictures accompanying the text are available free on the Internet.

Someone said to the Elder, “They say that above the sky there is another sky, the sky of heaven. What is that?”

“This is what creates worlds. This, among other things, is what created our earth with its gas wrapping that earthlings call the sky. This is what also generated the earth’s spiritual cover, which the planet’s inhabitants call the noosphere, their God or heaven of a higher order.” Such was the Elder’s reply.

“How do you imagine the sky of heaven?”

“For a living creature, it is impossible to imagine it,” the Elder continued. “All discussions of this topic are fantastic ideas, wandering thoughts.”

Someone still asked for an answer. “Still, what would you call it?”

“If you are so insistent…” The Elder pondered and lowered his head. Then slowly he lifted it and started speaking to no one in particular, looking nowhere.

“The sky of heaven is what is universal, what builds things up and destroys them. Sometimes it appears to me in my dreams in the form of a swirling blackness as huge as my whole consciousness. Then it tightens, and over time, all of creation’s products disappear there without a trace. Into it we are also going to disappear.

“In a mysterious way, suddenly, the black swirl transforms into a softly shining silver-edged beige cloud. Several times, it came to me in my waking state. It goes on, this cloud, and seems to take a living being for the soul, bringing it nearer to itself and transforming it from a servant of the earth to a servant of heaven. In such instances, a living creature involuntarily swears an oath of loyalty to it. I also swore such an oath.

“But in my opinion, the images that I described to you are false. The sky of heaven provided me with them because of the feebleness of my spiritual essence. Meanwhile, in fact, there is neither a swirl nor a cloud.”

“Well, what is there then?”

“Some mysterious and great inconceivable force. In order to describe it somehow, living creatures came up with a lot of names. I call it heaven, the Most High, the Everlasting… Nevertheless, all of these are my mental fabrications and come within an inch of blasphemy. I pray to the sky of heaven for forgiveness for the sake of my hearty love for it and my tremulous awe of it.”

There were two men. One traveled around the world just for pleasure. Meanwhile, the second never left his village and felt no need to see other countries. Both of them died on the same day. Together, they went to heaven. There, an angel who had never visited earth met them.

“What are your impressions of life while possessing a body?” the angel asked the two souls.

“Life on the earth is varied,” the first one replied.

“Life is deep,” the second one said.

The angel said nothing to them but smiled instead, because he knew that one could give hundreds of definitions of mortal life.

You might wonder, “So why did he ask, if he already knew everything?”

In reply, I would say to you, “Can we know why spirits act one way or another?”

Once upon a time, there was a man who wrote poetry. But when people took his books into their hands and opened them, they saw only empty pages.

At first, the man was astonished and outraged. Then he said, “Oh, here, look – here are the poems!” And with his finger, he pointed to this or that tiny image.

And indeed, some people succeeded in perceiving signs or even words in his books. But those signs and words did not settle into familiar concepts. And this is why people did not understand them. Then the man recited his opuses aloud. People heard only sound vibrations that meant nothing to them.

Finally, the man realized that his poetry was not for people. “For whom, then?” he mused. “For the Great Inconceivable? For the angels of heaven?” And the man started to listen for sensations that emanated from angels. And indeed, nothing settled into words or concepts! Nothing from the inexpressibly beautiful what angels do could not be displayed using musical notation. And the man realized that angels sing (or speak?) not for someone but instead for no reason. Angels sing or speak not as an act of creativity but as a mode of existence. And after that, he started to act the same way.