This is not a résumé.
This is not a company mission.
This is a glimpse into my soul.
My name is David Wolf, and this space – ZenGate – is the reflection of a long inner journey. A journey across realms: visible and invisible, broken and whole, lost and found. Here you’ll find a thread that weaves through dreams, awakenings, silence, fire, and light.
What follows is not just a story – it’s a memory retrieved from between the worlds. A moment that held my heart still long enough to feel the breath of something greater.
If you’re here, perhaps you too are listening for that subtle echo.
Content Warning: This article contains descriptions of domestic and sexual abuse that may be triggering for some readers. Please proceed with care
“I share this not to dwell in pain, but to transmute it. My journey of remembering includes walking through darkness – not to remain there, but to reclaim the light I had to leave behind.”
I’m telling this story now with a beard nearly white – a sign of time passed, of lessons learned, of a long journey walked. It began many years ago, in a small town in Ukraine named Berdichev.
I won’t mention the dates or names – those details may come later. For now, I will do my best to tell it without judgment, and to remain as detached as possible from the scene and the characters.
I was born into a warm and vibrant family, large and full of life. We all lived together in a small two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a five-story building, part of a modest residential complex. Just a few meters from the building’s entrance stood a kindergarten – its presence a symbol of childhood, innocence in early beginnings.
In that apartment lived my grandfather and grandmother, their children – my father and his sister – as well as my mother and me, my aunt’s husband, and their son. The apartment was often filled with cousins, relatives, and visiting friends. It was crowded, yes – but never lacking space for love.
Every pair of eyes I looked into greeted me with warmth. There was no trace of hatred or jealousy in those early days. Only love. Gentle voices. Open arms. A sense of belonging that wrapped around me like a blanket., the atmosphere buzzed with life.
From the early age, I was an empath, I could here between the words, could read the attention of everybody and I was supper healthy and strong. Not just in body – but in spirit. There was a fire in me. An inner push, a silent whisper that urged me to grow, to become, to rise. I didn’t yet have words for it. But I felt it: I was meant to become strong.
The Day Everything Changed
I was three and a half years old when my world is shifted.
One evening, I was left at kindergarten long after the other children had gone. My mother arrived late, clearly upset. She had expected my father to pick me up, but he hadn’t shown. He was working – or rather, staying late at work.
When he finally returned home, I remember overhearing my parents talking. The tone of their voices was different – subtle, but unmistakable. Something in their energy had changed, and I could feel it. I didn’t hear the words, but I understood the emotion.
The next morning, my mother came to me. Kneeling to my eye level, she asked me gently if I wanted to stay with my father or come with her – because she was leaving. Without hesitation, I said, “I’m coming with you.”
At three and a half years old, I had no idea what separation or divorce meant, but I knew I couldn’t let her go alone. I felt, instinctively, that she would need my presence, my protection, even if I was just a child. I didn’t understand how a little boy could protect a grown woman, but it didn’t matter. The feeling was immediate and strong: I couldn’t leave her to go into the unknown without me.
I believed it would be temporary – that we’d come back soon, that this was just a short adventure. But we never returned.
We went to live with my grandmother – my mother’s mother – who stayed within walking distance, maybe a kilometre away. Her home was part of an old communal apartment: a shared kitchen and living space, with each bedroom rented by a different tenant. We squeezed into that single room and made it our own.
The next morning, my mother had an errand, and she took me with her. Instead of taking the bus, she noticed a man offering rides – like a private taxi. It wasn’t official, just a man in a car. He drove a Volga GAZ-21, a luxurious vehicle at the time, while most people drove the boxy Zhigulis. The Volga stood out – sleek, stylish, different. I saw her eyes catch the car, and maybe something more. Perhaps she saw something in him: youth, wealth, charm.
She spoke to him, and we got in.
At some point during the drive, she leaned toward me and whispered a request: “Ask him if he will be our father.” And without thinking – out of love, loyalty, obedience – I did.
It was a mistake.
A deep part of me wishes I had said, “But we already have a father.” Maybe if I had spoken it aloud, things would have turned out differently.
When the ride ended, they spoke privately outside the car. I don’t know what they said, but it was clear they made plans to meet again. There were no phones back then, so she must have given him an address.
That was how we met the man who would become our stepfather.
From an early age – I could pick up on people’s intentions. So, when I sensed her connection with this man, I felt clearly that she didn’t truly want him. It wasn’t love. It was a provocation – something she did to upset my father. I felt she believed that if she connected with this younger guy, someone with money and charm, my father would get jealous, chase after her, and beg her to return. That was the energy I picked up back then.
But none of us realized the kind of trouble we were inviting into our lives the moment she let that man in.
He came to pick her up in his flashy car, wearing a suit. Later I noticed that the suit was rented – just another part of his illusion. He brought her flowers and took her to the fanciest restaurant in our city. He knew how to make an impression. On that first date, he played the role of a gentleman – rich, elegant, successful. Everything that could impress a woman in her early twenties. My mother was about 21 at that time and he was three years older – around 25.
Even as a child, I could sense there was something missing in him. He felt like an empty shell, like there was no real essence behind his mask. From the first date she came back different, something didn’t sit right with me in her behaviour. But I thought it was temporary – that soon this game would end, and she would move on. I truly believed she was only using him to wake up my father.
After that night, everything changed.
He turned violent almost instantly. My mother had to obey his every request without question, as if they were soldiers in a silent war. There was no space for discussion – only command and compliance. And when she failed to follow his abnormal logic, which shifted like sand, she was punished. No matter what she did, it was always the wrong thing. Eventually, she stopped trying to understand. She simply endured. He began to threaten her life – and mine. He told her if she ever left him, or even spoke to anyone about what was happening, he would do the worst imaginable to her and to me. I can’t use here the words, that came from his mouth back there. He said it calmly, directly, like a man who had done it before or was capable of it without a blink. And from that moment on, we were trapped.
For the next three years, that small room became our home. After my grandmother – my mother’s mother – left, it was just the three of us living there. There was no more kindergarten for me. During the day, while my mother and stepfather were at work, I stayed locked inside that narrow space alone. The room was no more than three by six meters – maybe even less – and had only one window, facing the outside world.
We lived on the first floor, and through that small window came moments of warmth that made all the difference. My grandmother from my father’s side would often visit me, bringing along my younger cousin, who must have been just two years old at the time. They would walk all the way – nearly half an hour on foot – just to stand by that window and talk with me so I wouldn’t feel so alone. She always brought little treats: cookies, fruit, warm food – whatever she could carry. For those few minutes, the room felt less like a cell. Their presence, their voices, their love through that window softened the silence and reminded me I wasn’t forgotten.
At night, my mother and stepfather would return, and the abuse began, again. and again. I remember the sounds. The screams. The shame. He would insult her almost every evening and every night. The violence was routine. And eventually, it escalated to something even more degrading.
They began to have “the act” right in front of me – just a few meters away. I was too young to understand what they were doing, but I knew it wasn’t right. I felt it as a continuation of the humiliation. The worst part was that I couldn’t sleep or run away. I had to witness it, without the ability to do anything about.
That was my daily reality until school began.
That part of my life I remember as darkest years, not just metaphorically, but literally. Most of the day I was looked in that room, until my mother came back from work. A single window, overlooking the park, was the room’s only source of light. where I could sometimes hear the birds – pigeons and a cuckoo whose voice I still remember.
Before I started the first grade, we moved to a new apartment in the city. It was a small one-bedroom place, but this time we had our own kitchen – not shared with other families. It felt like a step forward in terms of space, but not in safety. Even though we moved, the abuse didn’t stop. It was as if he took pleasure in it. There was no sense that he was trying to teach anything or correct behaviour. It felt like he simply enjoyed hurting.
In those early school years, I was still a strong and healthy little boy – second from the bottom in height, but far from the bottom in spirit. I had a sharp mind, quick to learn, and often excelled beyond others in sports, art, writing – everything we were introduced to. It was as if the energy from my first three years was still burning inside me. But as time passed, that fire began to dim.
The Blueprint of Violence
There was a pattern to it, a ritual almost, one that played out so many times it etched itself into my body like a memory more persistent than thought.
It usually began with absence. He would vanish for days – no word, no call, just a lingering tension in the house. Then, without warning, the doorbell would ring. My mother and I would freeze. I’d watch from the living room as she stepped cautiously into the hallway to open the door. And there he’d be – standing drunk on the staircase, eyes filled with hatred, glaring at her as though she had sinned against him in his absence.
“Where’s my scarf?” he would ask, even though it was wrapped around his own neck. It wasn’t a real question. It was bait.
My mother, trembling, would point gently and whisper, “It’s on you…”
But the truth didn’t matter. Her voice – meek, afraid – was all he needed to declare her guilty. In a split second, his hand would lash out. A brutal open-handed slap to the face would send her crashing to the floor. It was never about the scarf. It was never about anything real. It was about control. About the territory he believed was his.
Without pause, he’d grab her by the hair, dragging her toward the kitchen. There, he’d fling open the freezer door, scanning for a flaw. Too empty? Too full? Something old or out of place? It didn’t matter – he was looking for an excuse. Something to escalate his fury.
Still on the floor, she’d be met with his accusations -about food, about dirt, about money, about nothing at all. He would yell, then hit her again. Punches to the stomach, the chest, her ribs – targeting the organs like he was trying to silence her soul.
Sometimes there was blood. Sometimes her body would collapse under the force of it. But the beating wasn’t the end. It was a means to an end. And this is the darkest truth I had to learn, years later, when I started to seek answers in books about trauma and human behaviour:
He used violence as foreplay. He couldn’t approach intimacy with love. He could only do it through conquest, through domination. Only when she was broken, silent, almost unconscious, could he impose himself on her. It was never about “the act” It was about control. It was about reducing another human being to a place where he could feel power.
That night was just one of many. A single echo of a pattern that had become my normal – etched into my memory not just as a child witnessing horror, but as a soul trying to make sense of how such cruelty could exist in a home where love was supposed to live.
Betrayal
✦ I was maybe five, or six years old – I remember the night everything shifted. Until then, I had been held in a kind of energetic bubble, untouched by fear, like something was watching over me. But that night, I stepped into a world I wasn’t meant to know so soon.
The violence was about to erupt again, and without thinking, I stepped between them – between my stepfather and my mother. I stood small, but upright, as if some invisible force had told me, “Now is the time.”
I locked eyes with him. For a moment, I saw confusion in his gaze – like he couldn’t comprehend where this stillness, this calm defiance was coming from. I wasn’t trembling like she was. I wasn’t frozen in fear. There was courage in me, though I didn’t know what courage was yet. And then, something pierced me.
My mother grabbed my shoulders from behind. Her touch jolted through me like electricity. Not the comforting kind. It was terror. Her fear entered me fully, like a lightning bolt through my spine. I turned to look at her, and I felt her, not just her body. Her pain. Her helplessness. Her fear. And for the first time in my life, I cried.
That night I was trying to understand what had happened – what I had just stepped into. And in the morning, I stood in front of the mirror and stared into my own eyes.
“If this is life,” I whispered, “I don’t want it.”
I didn’t know who I was speaking to. I had no concept of God, or higher self, or Creator, or soul contracts. But it didn’t matter. Something in me knew I was being heard.
From that day on, everything changed.
The shield I once had – whatever light had protected me – was gone. My body became sensitive. I began to fall sick often – fevers, headaches, recurring flus like my system couldn’t anchor itself. I cried often, especially when my mother was hurt. Every blow she received, I felt it inside me. It was like her nervous system became mine. My heart was too open, too exposed.
Before he entered our lives, I didn’t even know evil existed. I was so open, so trusting. I believed the world was one family – that everyone loved and cared for one another. But being around him… I couldn’t understand what he was. At first, I thought he was one of a kind. A strange exception to the humankind.
For me this experience was like trying to raise a bird in an aquarium or a fish in a birdcage – nothing about it made sense. I was placed in an environment where I simply couldn’t survive. I wasn’t meant to grow there.
Drawing was my passion, something I loved from a very young age, but when he stood close to me, or behind me – I froze. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I felt paralyzed, like my life energy just stopped flowing.
At school, I started to awaken again. I could feel energy returning to me in small sparks. But the moment I came back home, it disappeared. Vibrationally, I dropped back into emptiness. Absence. Like I wasn’t allowed to exist.
I couldn’t express myself at home. Anything I said or did could trigger his rage. And when that happened, my mother would get hurt. So, I became as small as possible. I spoke less. Moved slower. Even breathed less. I trained myself to breathe only at a minimal level – so quietly I wouldn’t be noticed. Only later in life, when I learned to breathe again, did I realize how much I had been holding my breath all those years.
I barely slept at night. When I finally drifted off just before dawn, my mother would quietly wake me, dress me, and guide me out the door. I’d head off to school half-asleep, catching a bus by myself for a long ride – about half an hour. Then I’d walk the rest of the way, often meeting other students along the route. I was still half-dreaming during those walks. And sometimes, I’d fall asleep during class.
The outside world became my true home. Not the apartment. But the open spaces – the playground, the streets. The city became my refuge. From a young age, I was curious. I didn’t rush back home after school. I wandered the city with my best friend, exploring every corner like an adventurer. It made me feel alive. Out there, I felt safe. In that apartment, I felt like a prisoner in enemy territory.
I remember once asking my mother, “Why are you staying with him? He doesn’t love you. Why are you with him? Why didn’t you leave him like you left my father?” She answered, “He doesn’t know how to love. Nobody taught him.”
At the time, I somehow accepted that answer. But now I know: love is not something that needs to be taught. You either have it – or you don’t.
If you really pay attention and observe children closely, you’ll notice they often make strange, spontaneous movements – stretching their backs or legs, twisting, or fidgeting for no obvious reason. Medically, it can be explained: when energy builds up in certain parts of the body, especially around the chakras, the body needs to move in order to let that energy flow. It’s not usually conscious -it’s like a built-in mechanism we all share.
But over time, many people lose this instinct. Especially those who spend years in factories, offices, or stuck behind screens. Life schedules, stress, and mental conditioning all play a role. Some people, especially those who stay unaware or disconnected, become zombie-like – emotionally flat, less alive.
That’s often the point where the body begins to suffer – not just because of physical inactivity, but due to the apathy that creeps in as the inner fire of life dims.
I became like that myself, but to early. Even though there were moments of joy, bursts of energy when I was outside the house, they were never enough to bring balance. It felt more like spikes of overload. My happiness wasn’t natural – it was more like a short time hyperactivity, not enough to let the energy flow where it needed to, for my body to grow. So, most of the time, I would be quiet, motionless, almost invisible. Then, there would be these short cycles of joy, usually when my stepfather wasn’t home. Just me, my mother, and my baby sister.
She was born when I was six. His daughter – but to me, she was simply my sister. I loved her with a pure heart, as if we shared the same mother and father. I didn’t care about bloodlines. I only cared that she would grow up with love.
I tried to protect her – to teach her to be good. I was actually grateful to have someone I could care for; someone I could share my love with. But I was also afraid – afraid that she would witness the same darkness I did, without the bright beginning I was lucky to have. I had at least three and a half years of joy before it all changed. She was born right into the storm.
Being born directly into that kind of madness, I was afraid she would suffer, and that the stress might shut her down. But perhaps my sister’s soul was more prepared for it. And because she was his daughter, his violence gradually became less visible in her presence. He held back more when she was around – unless she was outside or distracted in another room. Then, without warning, he would attack. But over time, the outbursts became less frequent – only surfacing when he was drunk and didn’t care about anyone or anything.
Looking back, I realize many of my fears about her witnessing all this were probably shaped by my own memories. I had something to compare it to. For me his behaviour clearly was violent, something deeply wrong. But for her, it was the only reality she knew. In a way, it became normal. She absorbed some of his patterns, too, in ways that showed up later in her own life. Her reactions to the world were so different from mine.
Whenever he was away, I tried to show her the beauty of life. I’d draw for her, let her laugh and explore life outside the house. I tried to teach her how to be calm, quiet the mind and approach everything with love – how to put worries aside and focus on the good. Even in chaos and stress situations.
The Growth Beyond Fear
Years passed, and eventually I finished the 8th grade. I was about 16 years old when I made the decision to move out. I had passed the entrance exam for an art school in the provincial centre, the city of Zhytomyr. That September, I moved there and began my studies. The program was meant to last three years until graduation.
After about a year or a year and a half of studying there, I visited home and ran into some of my old classmates. They were shocked by how much I had grown; I became about 15 centimetres taller since they last saw me. I had never grown like that before. Only later did I begin to understand why.
When you live in a calm environment, where danger feels distant – even if it’s not your true home – your body can finally relax. You can sleep through the night without fear, without the same thoughts looping endlessly in your head. And when that happens, your energy isn’t wasted on survival. It goes into growth. It goes into healing. It becomes available to support your true development. For me, this was obvious. It was the first time my body had been free enough to grow.
Eventually, my mother told me that we were moving to Israel.
From my mother and my sister, I have learned that the abuse was over, during those last years he had become quieter, and they no longer seemed to be upset. On one hand, I was excited, a new light of adventure sparked inside me, on the other hand, I still didn’t trust, and I didn’t want to return to living together. Something inside resisted, but my desire for a new life was stronger. And of course, I didn’t want to stay behind, alone in Ukraine. Israel in those days felt like a dream – almost like America. A place completely different from the greyness I had known. So, I packed, and we flew.
As soon as we started our new life in Israel, I found way to run away. I began studying Hebrew at the kibbutz – somewhere far from my parents’ home. I kept studying until I received my army draft notice. Despite my broken Hebrew, I pushed myself to join one of the most elite combat units – Sayeret Givati. It’s in some ways similar to the Navy SEALs in the U.S.
I passed all the tests – physical, mental, IQ – and was accepted. During those three years of service, I completed many demanding courses, which not only improved my Hebrew but also reignited something within me: the spark of adventure and the desire to live, to explore and to prove my worth – to the world, but mostly to myself.
After my military service, I was invited to join a special police force. But first, I travelled briefly to China and visited the Shaolin Temple. That trip brought new excitement and inspiration. It reminded me of my deeper nature – something beyond survival or proving worth.
During my trip, I had a profound moment. As I climbed the stairs to the main hall of the temple, where people were lighting candles and incense, offering prayers. Sitting on the steps was a very old man, with white hair and a long white beard – just like one of those Shaolin masters from the movies. As I passed by him, he suddenly grabbed my hand and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ I told him I was looking for some answers. He pointed to my chest and said, ‘For that, you don’t need to travel so far.’ At the time, I didn’t fully understand what he meant, but those words stayed with me.
I have returned to Israel and passed the highly competitive exams for the elite police unit and reached many goals on my way. Those years were proof that nothing is impossible. But despite these achievements, I still felt a quiet ache in my chest, as if I were chasing something I had yet to find.
During my time in the police, I began to feel a deep need to express my artistic nature. Though I enjoyed the skill and power I had gained – handling any weapon in any situation – my creative soul felt caged. Even before I officially left, my commander, hearing I planned to open a tattoo studio, asked me to paint murals on two large walls at the base. As soon as I finished, I left and opened my first tattoo shop in Tel Aviv, named New Creation.
It was a great success. and after one year, I opened a second shop. I felt I could achieve anything – except, perhaps, love… and my mother’s happiness. That sense of failure still followed me.
Despite external success, something was missing. I felt a hole in my chest – a deep inner ache. It was as if something vital was missing… some truth about life, or about me. I knew, somewhere deep inside, that without this lost piece, I was just copying others, walking someone else’s path. I had forgotten my true self long ago, and no amount of material success could fill that void. Without knowing who I truly was, even prestige and wealth felt like a waste of time. My ego was living, but my soul was not.
The Offering
Somewhere during those tattoo shop days, a friend brought me a Zen book – I don’t remember the title. I started reading it, and in the middle, there was a passage that struck me. It said something like this:
“If you want to know the true purpose of life, don’t ask another person – not even a guru. Their answer will always be shaped by their perspective, their knowledge, or their ego. It will never be the answer. For questions like who am I, why am I here, what is the meaning of life, you must direct them to a higher source. And to show you’re serious, you must offer something of value – make a true sacrifice. Then you wait, until the answer comes.”
It wasn’t exactly worded like that, but that was the essence.
That night, I found myself in the studio, watching the people around me – everyone laughing, drinking, happy. But I was just pretending. I couldn’t feel it. I kept thinking: Why are they so happy? Don’t they know we’re all going to die? Death is the only thing that’s 100% guaranteed. Everything else in life is 50/50 at best. But no one really thinks about that. Everyone imagines death is far away. But when it comes, it always comes now. The moment of departure is always this moment.
And what if there’s nothing after that – if this life is all there is – then what’s the point of pretending?
So, I left the studio and decided to meditate on the question. I went to the beach that night, asking myself, what do I truly want to know? And how can I prove I’m serious enough to receive an answer – if there even is a higher source?
Back then, I didn’t believe in anything. Like most people today, I’d been raised to trust only the material world. If I couldn’t touch it, it wasn’t real.
But still, I asked myself: What’s the most valuable thing I have in this life, the life itself? I thought about: if I will sacrifice my own life, and if there’s no continuation after death, then I would never receive the answer.
So, I asked again: What’s the second most important thing I have? It was clear. It was my material base, my business, my tattoo shop.
So, I made my decision. That morning, straight from the beach, I went to the shop. I told my partner – the friend I had trained and brought in as a 50/50 business partner – that the business was now entirely his. I was letting it all go. This was my offering to the unknown. My sign of sincerity. My signal to the higher source.
Then I left. I went back to the beach, and I waited.
I waited for an answer – for a year and a half.
During that time, I lived disconnected from everyone and everything. I survived off the leftovers from the marketplace after it closed, picking up apples or oranges at the end of the day. Around 3 PM, Krishna devotees would bring vegetarian food to the park for the homeless, it was more than enough for me. I showered using outdoor beach pipes in the summer, and in winter, whatever toilet tap I could find. I slept in abandoned houses across Tel Aviv or just on the sand.
Every day and every night, I waited.
During that time, it felt as if I had detached completely from the life I once knew. I used none of the system’s services – no banks, no supermarkets. Each day followed the same path: from the beach to the park and back again. Most of the time, I sat in one place on the sand, simply waiting for an answer.
I wasn’t prepared for being alone for so long in that much silence. Thoughts flooded in – old memories, looping through my mind like broken film reels. Day after day, I was being dragged downward, my spirit pulled into a kind of depression. By the end of that year and a half, I was completely depleted. I had no life force left – just a body that kept walking through a routine I no longer understood.
Eventually, I stopped the daily walk. I drank only water from a pipe and lost all interest in food. Even the reason for being there slipped from my memory. I didn’t want to go back – and I didn’t care to move forward. It felt like life was already behind me. I had nothing left to seek. I had exhausted myself, emptied myself, and no longer wished to continue in this body. I became like an empty vessel – waiting for my departure.
I prayed to God, or to whatever Source above. “If you are real,” I said, “please take me from here.”
My body grew so weak, I lay on the sand without the strength to move a single finger. Mostly, I slept. When I opened my eyes, I’d see morning – then after blinking, it would already be evening. I blinked again, and it was night. Then day again. Time passed like flashes of light. I was drifting in and out of awareness.
And always, when I opened my eyes, I heard the same sounds – the steady rhythm of the waves and the faint, distant laughter and voices of people in the background.
Tel Aviv never truly sleeps – many say it has “white nights.” But in those final moments, everything became silent.
The Answer from Above
I wasn’t fully awake, but I wasn’t asleep either. It was a space between worlds. I felt as if I were watching myself from above – my body lying still on the sand – while something in me began rising, lifting into the sky, and beyond. I kept rising, higher and higher, until the entire planet became a single point. I continued to ascend, until even the Milky Way collapsed into a single spark – and still, I soared further.
From that vantage point, all the answers came at once, like a silent transmission. I saw existence as pure light – alive and connected – each spark, each atom, each form made from the same conscious, living Source. From there, it became clear: there was no difference between a star and a human being, between a bird and a blade of grass. Everything was equally precious, equally loved – no hierarchy in the eyes of the Great Witness above.
I came to understand that life on Earth is not just a school – it is a living, breathing intelligence that responds to us. Every thought, every hidden emotion, every vibration echoes outward and returns through the body, through others, through the world itself. This reality is not separate from us; it is a mirror made of matter and meaning. When we learn to navigate our inner landscape – to meet our thoughts with clarity, our emotions with grace, and our actions with integrity – we realign with our original blueprint. In doing so, the body begins to heal, and the world around us shifts. This is how we graduate: by becoming whole. This is how heaven returns – not from above, but from within.
From that cosmic perspective, even our deepest failures and pains looked small, like the missteps of children. Many lifetimes seemed to revolve around the same repetitive chase.
It all happened in a flash – less than a second – but it contained everything.
Then I returned.
As soon as I entered my body, I fully woke up. It was like taking a single breath that wasn’t just air – it was essence, something holy. With that first breath, I felt a crack open in my chest. Another breath – another crack in my solar plexus. And then the energy rushed in. I was awake. Alive. Not only could I move my fingers – but I could also stand. And I did. Easily, it almost felt like I could fly.
Looking left and right, I noticed something strange. The sea was completely still. No waves. No wind. Even the sounds of the city were gone. Silence. I thought to myself, Maybe I did die. Maybe I’m standing in the afterlife. It looked the same, but it felt different. So, I started walking the beach, wondering if there were others. But there was no one. No one on the sand. No one on the streets nearby. It was completely silent.
As I moved toward the southeastern part of the beach, I entered the city. There, I finally saw something – a black cat, gently carrying her kittens across the street. She was the only other being in this still world.
I stood quietly, watching. She jumped through the broken window of an abandoned house, picked up a kitten, and carried it across the street behind a metal fence. Again and again, she returned for another. Each time, she took a different coloured kitten. But after what seemed like the last trip, something strange happened. She stopped halfway in the middle of the street… and just stood there. Then, she turned and went back behind the fence.
Something in me knew – something’s not right.
She wasn’t human, so she shouldn’t have forgotten how many kittens she had. Why stop halfway? Curious. I decided to check. I climbed through the broken window and looked inside the house. It was dark. I didn’t hear anything – but then I moved a mattress that was lying half on the bed, half on the floor, and saw a small orange spot. It was a kitten. I touched him. He was cold. Right away, I realized – he’d been left behind. Perhaps already dead. The mother had taken all the living ones and left this one.
I picked him up and carried him outside. I laid him gently on the warm bricks and sat beside him, silently watching. I felt something. Something deep. As if… I was that kitten. Abandoned. In a broken world. A tear fell. My own childhood came rushing back – all the missing years, all the pain.
Then the sun began to rise. Slowly, a golden ray moved across the ground. When it touched him – he twitched. Just a little movement, but I saw it. So, I moved him closer to the light. And again – more movement. His tiny paw reached out.
After about 20 minutes or half an hour later, he stood. Then he started playing with a blade of grass poking through the cracks, like nothing happened. Joy filled the air. I looked up – and there she was. The mother cat. Watching. Slowly, she approached. She rubbed herself against my back, gently bit my hand, and licked her kitten.
Then, just as she had before, she picked him up by the neck and carried him back to where the others waited, to their new home.
“This is just one part of the path.
I’ll be sharing more soon – thank you for walking with me.”
