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The One Who Pushes the Wind
Author: Sergey VeretennikovMay 11, 2025.
CHAPTER I
The Wind That Pushes Silence
He sat.
He did not think. He did not wait. He simply—sat.
Before him, space rang softly. There were no words in it, no ideas. Only the light movement of air.
The wind did not call. It did not stir any thoughts. It simply… was.
It touched his cheek, passed along his neck, became tangled in his hair, and then He opened his eyes.
“What pushes the wind?”—the question came, painfully obvious and simple.
He stood up and walked along the shore.
The wind touched the water. The water gave birth to waves. The waves broke against the rocks. The rocks were silent.
But in that silence he heard a sound.
A sound born of the waves created by the wind.
He sat down at the very edge of the surf.
The wind continued to blow.
But now it was no longer merely wind. It had become an effect.
The effect of what He was trying to understand.
“If there is wind, then there must have been something
that made the air move.
And if that existed—what came before it?”
He gazed at the horizon. There, where the wave rose and vanished, as if asking on his behalf.
“What caused the first movement?
What was at the beginning of all transformations?
If energy gives birth to everything,
then what gave birth to energy itself?..”
He closed his eyes.
And heard not an answer,
but the faint tension of silence.
CHAPTER II
When Stones Speak
He lay on his back. The stones beneath him were warm, almost alive.
Clouds drifted above him.
The water whispered of depth.
The wind blew over the water and lazily caressed space.
Light slid across his skin.
Everything around him breathed,
but did not hurry him.
He began to reflect:
“The wind is the movement of the atmosphere.
The atmosphere changes with temperature.
The Sun creates temperature...”
He fell silent.
Not aloud, but within.
“No matter how far I travel toward the Beginning, there is always something before it.”
The wave struck the shore again, but now he no longer perceived it as a sound.
It was like a thought that had arrived without form, like the shadow of something that knows no language.
He closed his eyes.
And in that inner darkness it became clear:
“The Sun gives energy to the Planet.
The wind is born.
It passes energy to the water.
The wave touches me with sound...
But perhaps it is not sound.
Perhaps it is the touch of one
who is silent… yet calls.”
He stood up.
Not because he had to go.
But because he understood:
if he stayed, he might stop hearing.
And if he walked, perhaps someone would speak again.
And he walked on.
And the stones behind him kept their silence.
But he knew for certain:
They had said everything that needed to be said.
Only—not in words.
CHAPTER III
Light Running Through Wires
He walked along a road where there were no people.
Only ancient poles and wires,
stretched above the earth like nerves.
In one of the houses in the distance, a light blinked.
He did not know who had switched on the lamp.
But he knew that Something was now running along those slender lines.
He stopped.
The wires stretched farther on—toward the horizon, like roads leading to an invisible source.
He thought of the Sun.
Of how its core pulsates.
Of how it is the cause of the causes that brought light to someone’s window.
“But what if even the Sun is merely a receiver,
merely a body in which a law manifests?
Then even the Sun is not the cause of energy.”
He closed his eyes.
He imagined light running through the wires.
Not as electrons, not as matter.
But as someone’s will, someone’s desire.
The desire to be.
The desire to arrive.
The desire to ignite.
He felt that same desire moving within him.
He thought:
“If even a wire knows nothing about
what flows through it,
then perhaps I, too,
am merely a path for something
that passes through me?
And energy is not mine,
but passes through me
to become light?”
He did not wait for an answer.
Because he knew:
the next clue would not come from outside.
But from within.
CHAPTER IV
The Cause of the Sun
He went out into a field where a sea of flowers was in bloom.
The Sun stood high.
It was silent.
He stopped.
“If even the Sun is an effect,
then what is the cause?
If the Sun gives birth to warmth,
who gave warmth to the Sun itself?
What existed before mass appeared?
Before the star? Before light?..”
He felt a light touch in his chest.
Not anxiety, but the unease of a Discovery.
As if truth had come too close,
but had no form by which it could be recognized.
He sat down in the grass.
And slowly inhaled the scent of flowers, grass, and decaying leaves.
“You will not find the beginning in the star.
Because it is already flame.
But you can learn—
why it caught fire.”
The Sun was not an answer; it was merely another luminous question.
One from which there was nowhere to hide.
He opened his eyes.
And no longer sought answers in the visible world.
He simply looked at the sky.
And felt:
Light explains nothing.
But it reminds us that we must keep moving forward.
CHAPTER V
The Singing Silence
He sat at the edge of a cliff.
Below him was emptiness.
There was no wind.
There was no light.
There was no thought.
There was only a strange silence,
in which he felt... resistance.
Not resistance to him personally.
But resistance to itself.
“Perhaps energy is not force.
Perhaps energy is resistance to rest.”
He listened.
And in that silence, between himself and the absence of self,
he felt a movement that did not yet exist.
As if space were already preparing
to say something.
He thought:
“Energy is not a flash.
Energy is the condition for a flash.
Not light, but the possibility of light.
Not sound, but silence,
so tense
that the future is already sounding within it.”
He did not call it God.
He did not call it Law.
He did not even know whether it was someone.
But he knew:
everything that moves,
everything that exists,
everything that has become possible—
became possible because it wanted to be.
He whispered:
“You were before time.
Before space. Before matter.
You are not energy.
You are that from which energy was born,
because silence could not endure its own perfection.”
CHAPTER VI
A Name for the Nameless
He did not know whether he was asleep.
He did not know where his body was, where the earth was, or where he himself was.
There was only transparency.
Without color. Without movement. Without a center.
And within that transparency—Presence.
It had no form.
It was not a face, an eye, or a voice.
It did not even look.
It was—as possibility.
He wanted to ask, “Who are you?”
But the voice within him already knew:
the question was inappropriate,
if there was no one to answer.
He merely whispered:
“I do not know your name.
But you are everything to which I could never give a name throughout my life.
You were in the wind. In song. In silence.
In the question of what came before the question…”
And Presence did not answer.
But within it, a movement arose,
slow, like a plan beginning to glow.
And he understood:
Energy is not you.
But energy is your song,
which you never sang,
yet always sounded.
CHAPTER VII
Energy Is a Song
He stood once again on the shore.
There were no more words.
The waves did not explain.
The wind did not offer clues.
The sea simply moved—as the breath of that
which needs no definition.
He did not ask.
He listened.
And he understood that everything he had called “energy,”
everything he had tried to trace—
from the wind to the Sun,
from the wave to the sound,
—all of it was music,
in which every note was a new transition to something new.
“Energy is not light.
Not current. Not mass. Not sound...
Energy is a song,
that never sounds in its entirety,
because it sings—through everything.
Through the wind. Through the water. Through me.”
He sat down.
He breathed.
He became sound.
And if someone passed by
and asked:
—What did you understand?
—What is energy?
He did not answer.
He simply was.
Because at that moment his silence sounded like an answer.
Because the answer was not in words.
The answer was in what lies between words.
Where the crest is not yet the peak of the wave.
Where the retreat is not yet absolute silence.
