The Pursuit of Truth

The Pursuit of Truth

I woke up to a call. The phone was vibrating insistently, as if someone was desperately trying to pull me out of sleep. Everything was a blur — night, silence, confusion. On the screen

— Mom. I answered, still not fully aware of what was happening.  — Thank God you picked up! — her voice was trembling, barely breathing, speaking through sobs. — Are you okay? You’re not hurt? 

— What?.. Do you even know what time it is?.. — I instinctively glanced at the clock. 4:00 a.m. Drowsiness mixed with irritation.

— I’m fine. Alive, intact... Sleeping. Should I call you ba—? I had already reached to hang up, but her voice grew more insistent: 

— Have you even looked outside?.. 

I sat up and pulled the curtain aside. Darkness. Empty streets. Everything as usual. I snorted: 

— Are you kidding me? It's dark and quiet. Same as always. Can I go back to sleep now? 

— Danny... the war has begun. 

Silence. Not a sound on the line. Only the faint rustle of breathing. No emotions, no thoughts. Just a feeling: My sleep was ruined.

After that conversation, for some reason, I opened the browser. I, a person who had instinctively stayed away from the news since childhood. It always seemed alien, unnecessary. I believed that if an event didn’t directly affect my life, it shouldn’t take up my attention. I had seen how the adults around me seemed chained to their screens. Their mood swung with the headlines: good news — their day was bright, bad news — and they themselves turned into shadows. But that day, I broke my rule. I simply typed: "news." And the first lines confirmed my mother’s words. War. But even then, no fear or anxiety stirred within me. Only a mild disappointment: yet another obstacle on the path to my career. After all, everything was just beginning...

I had just moved to the city center. For the first time — living independently. The office was no more than a five-minute walk away. After four months of daily torment in overcrowded buses, an hour and a half each way, I made the decision: pay more for rent, but live closer. It was a smart investment of time. An investment in myself.

I was seventeen years old, and it was my first job. I was selling home theater projectors. Naively, it seemed like such luck! — to land in a strong, close-knit team where everyone knew each other by name, where people helped and supported one another. For an inexperienced but eager guy, it was a real treasure.

But I wanted more.

I worked without watching the clock. I was inspired by the company’s founder, and fate brought me closer to him than I could have imagined. We worked side by side. I asked him everything: about logistics, about advertising, about partnerships, websites, accounting, even the fonts on the packaging. And to my surprise, he answered. Calmly, openly, as an equal. It was then that I realized: I could no longer see "regular jobs" merely as a way to earn money. For me, it became something personal.

My enthusiasm didn’t go unnoticed. Each day, they trusted me with more — the tasks grew more serious, the decisions heavier. And at some point, I reached a level where they were ready to entrust me with managing the company’s main branch in the country. Seventeen years old. The headquarters.

One weekend, while visiting my parents in my hometown, I shared this idea with my father. We were sitting in the kitchen. Evening. The old lamp flickered above the table. I leaned on my elbows and said: 

— Dad, I’ve got a problem. I want to move toward e-commerce. Here’s the idea: create a catalog, gather offers from local companies that already have products, list them on my website, and forward the orders directly to them. They’ll handle the shipping themselves... 

He listened silently. Just nodded. At that time, the term “dropshipping” was still practically unknown. So I forwarded every order manually — through messenger apps, to partners. All by hand.

We sat in silence for a bit. Then my father said just one word: 

— Talosha. 

— Talosha? — I repeated, surprised by how simple, melodic, and even... mysterious it sounded. — I like it. What does it mean? He smirked and scratched his chin: 

— When I was young, the guys and I worked in construction. Within our crew, that’s what we called little pieces of wood — scraps of boards. No one else knew about it. It was just… ours. I froze for a second. I was struck by how something so simple and unnoticed had been given such a beautiful name. And how deeply it resonated with me. 

— Perfect. Then I’m taking it for myself, — I said with a slight smile.

From that moment on, everything I took on — every project, every idea — carried the root of Talosha in its name. That word became part of my story.

Fueled, as it turned out, by false hopes for a cloudless future, I returned to my new apartment. Inspired. Confident. Ready for a new, productive week. Everything was falling into place: convenient location, promising position, good relationships with coworkers, and even — first business connections in the world of entrepreneurship.

And more and more, I began to feel drawn to the spiritual. At the time, I didn’t yet realize how important it was, but something inside — was calling. I felt I had to choose a path. To define the inner stance from which I’d move through life.

As a child, I grew up in a religious family. And I went to church… well, let’s just say, not out of great faith. More for the toys I was promised after the service. But even naïve motivation can’t last forever.

At twelve, something clicked inside me for the first time. One evening, I asked my mother: 

— Mom, how is it that all of humanity came from two people? And besides, Eve had three sons. They’re all related. Even if Adam had more children... how could humanity grow if everyone’s related?.. 

Mom hesitated, clearly flustered. Then she said: — Next time we go to church, I’ll ask the priest to speak with you. You can ask him that question. Sound good? I nodded. And soon forgot about the conversation. But a couple of weeks later, I got the chance.

After the service, the priest came up to me and, smiling, asked: 

— You wanted to ask something, my son? I looked into his eyes — and without a hint of shyness, with sincere curiosity, I repeated my question. 

— What a curious young man you are! — said the priest, smiling, and leaned in slightly. — Not a bad question, especially for someone who’s only fourteen.

He paused, looked into my eyes — as if he was about to share something sacred... 

— If you come to church every Sunday... — he continued — and you cross yourself, take communion, fast, confess, and eat prosphora... then God will surely give you an answer. He placed his hand on my shoulder, turned — and walked away.

I remained standing there. 

Inside, everything felt empty. 

That’s the answer?..

A couple of weeks later, I gave it another try. In a different church this time, I asked my mom to help get the attention of another priest. I was still thirsty for truth.

And here he was — a new person, a new face, a new hope. I repeated my question, just as directly, without hesitation. He listened, smiled gently, stroked my head… and said almost the same thing. 

Rituals. Obedience. Waiting.

That was the end of my search within religion. And even at such a young age, I felt a kind of skepticism begin to form inside me — not toward God, but toward the idea of religions as institutions that replace living contact with the Truth with empty promises.

Years passed. And yet — the thirst to seek never disappeared. It only grew stronger. Especially during the time when my life, seemingly, had reached its peak — career, environment, energy.

One day, in one of my family's country houses, I found a large black Bible. It lay in the dust, forgotten, as if no one had opened it for years. I took it with me — to my new apartment. And I began to read.

Diving into texts familiar since childhood felt like coming home. Even though I already knew much of it, I was genuinely interested. Not so much for new knowledge, but for the attempt to build the foundation of my spiritual world — in my own way. Consciously.

A week passed. I continued to balance work, my fledgling business, and late-night reading. And it was then, in the early morning, that the call came... 

It was a turning point.

That same evening, my parents came to pick me up. They brought me back home — to my hometown. I was still a minor, a seventeen-year-old teenager, but already with a sufficiently developed consciousness to make adult decisions.

I understood: 

I cannot stay. 

I made a cold, conscious decision — to leave the country. 

To put an end to the career I loved so much. To sever all ties. To leave behind everything I had built.

When I told my parents about my decision, I encountered no resistance. They understood: I was ready. I could stand on my own. A few days later, having packed my things, I left. Without fear. Without a plan. Only with an inner sense of anticipation.

Over three days — of trains, transfers, and steps along unfamiliar streets — I found myself on a farm, more than 1,500 miles from home. With no idea what would come next. No expectations. No fear.

I lived there for a month, completely forgetting everything that had come "before." Each morning I woke up with a smile. I walked. I spent time with the animals that filled the farm and brightened my solitude. I was... free. Until one day... that day came.

At some point, one of my ordinary, colorless days suddenly filled with color. A piece of news that would forever change my life.

Back when I was sixteen, beginning my climb up the career ladder and building my first business projects, I had carried one goal inside me — to accumulate enough capital at an early age to one day sell everything and invest in the U.S. economy. Back then, it seemed to me, I could earn the right to live there — in the land of dreams — and work.

And now, on that very day, living on a farm in a sparsely populated area, I read: 

The United States was opening its borders visa-free for citizens affected by the conflict in my country.

I didn’t feel euphoria. There was no scream of joy, no tears. Only a quiet awareness: the opportunity had arrived. And — resolve.

The decision was made in a single moment. I began planning my route, figuring out the most efficient way to cross the Atlantic Ocean. I didn’t care if I had to travel thousands of more miles — the only thing that mattered was not standing still, not for a second longer.

And so I went. I crossed two countries before reaching an airport with a direct flight. It was my first time flying on a plane. Crossing the ocean brought me to the decisive moment.

When everything narrows down to one thing — to one moment, to one action — time seems to freeze. The taxi driver, smiling, dropped me off at the bus stop where the shuttle to the border was already waiting. He wished me luck, shook my hand, and disappeared, leaving me standing alone. The bus stood with its doors open. I climbed aboard and settled into my seat. Surprisingly, there was no anxiety, no fear inside. Only pure, crystal-clear anticipation. A feeling that life was about to begin anew.

There were only minutes left to the border office. The interior of the bus was filled with a dense, almost tangible silence. People stared out the windows, clutching their documents tightly, as if they were personal life preservers. Some fidgeted nervously. Others simply sat motionless, gripping the armrests. I felt something building inside me — like the pulse before a jump into icy water.

And then, into that silence, straight into the heart of my consciousness, a thought burst forth. I didn’t invent it. It simply appeared — instantly, without warning, like a flash of lightning: “God, if I cross the border... I will find You.”

I froze. Even my breathing seemed to stop. That thought wasn’t logic. It wasn’t fear. It was something... primal. I — a person skeptical of religions, a person who had been disillusioned with religious rituals from an early age — suddenly made a vow. Not to the church. Not to the priests. But to God.

I didn’t know where those words had come from. But they were pure, clear, like a mirror. I understood: if I truly crossed the border — I would be bound to fulfill that promise.

I sat, waiting for my turn. With my minimal English skills, I kept rehearsing standard answers in my mind, building sentences, modeling possible dialogues. I tried to stay calm, to convince myself everything was under control. But when my moment came — something snapped.

My body felt as if it had stepped on a live wire. Everything inside tightened. All the phrases I had practiced along the way — vanished, as if they had never existed. My mind went completely blank.

I stood before the officer. My hands trembled. My voice wouldn’t obey. He looked at me, not aggressively — but firmly, professionally. — Where are your mom and dad? — he asked. But in my tension, I heard only two words: "mom" and "dead." Everything else blurred into background noise, like in the movies, when the alarm blares and drowns out the world. 

— My mom is not dead! — burst out of me, uncertain, almost automatic.

The officer frowned, raising an eyebrow slightly: 

— I didn't ask whether your mom is dead.

Those words hit me like another jolt. As if a few more wires had been connected to my body — my pulse spiked, my chest tightened, the air inside felt heavier. I started frantically thinking that I had made a mistake, that now everything — everything I had come so far for — would collapse before it even began.

My body thrashed inside. My heart pounded against my ribs like a beast in a cage — as if trying to break free. I shook. There was no way to hide it. Even a blind man would have known — I was barely standing.

When I realized that I had answered the officer with complete nonsense, our dialogue took a very different turn from what I had imagined. All the smooth scenarios I had rehearsed in my mind before the meeting crumbled to dust. I kept trembling. The officer moved on to the next step — fingerprinting. But even here, a new problem arose: my hands were shaking so badly that I simply couldn’t press my fingers onto the scanner. Every time the system almost captured a print, my fingers would involuntarily lift off the glass surface.

The officer glanced at me, clearly realizing he wasn’t just dealing with a confused teenager, but with someone experiencing something far greater. At some point, he exhaled tiredly and said: 

— Don’t worry. I’m going to let you through. Just let me scan your fingers, alright?

Usually, such words aren’t spoken before the end of the interview. But he had seen everything: my tension, my sincerity, the internal battle I was trying so hard to hide. One would think those words should have calmed me... but the opposite happened. My nerves gave out completely. I started shaking even more — not from fear, but from the sheer strain of all the emotions I had been holding inside.

And yet — he managed. At one point, the officer literally took my hands under his control. Gently, but firmly, he clasped my fingers with his palms, guiding them onto the scanner. He used both hands, almost as if helping not just to fix the prints but to hold me together, to keep me from falling apart. And then — the system worked. The scan completed. I had crossed the border. I was standing on the soil of a country I had once only dreamed about.

On the other side, I was met by volunteers. Kind, organized, confident. One of them explained that, according to the rules, minors were not allowed to cross the border without parents or guardians. And that’s when I realized: a few days earlier, I had turned eighteen. A few days that changed everything.

From that moment, a new chapter began.

I didn’t know English, but I started working. My first job was construction. I traveled to different sites installing windows. And I did it for almost a year and a half. It was a shock — because all my life, I had been far from physical labor. My childhood had been spent surrounded by computers, dance classes, programs, courses — anything but tools and concrete. My parents had always supported and funded my interests and ambitions. They never imposed their own dreams on me.

And now here I was, a person with over twelve years of dance training behind him, standing on construction scaffolding, installing window frames.

It was a trial. Especially in the first few months. But even during this difficult period, I didn’t forget my promise — the one whispered before the border, as if to the world, to God, to the Universe. I began fulfilling it — in my own way, not relying on rituals, but following the inner calling that was growing clearer each day.

And it was then that she appeared in my life.

A girl, in whose eyes I saw something I hadn’t seen in a long time — awareness. Not just kindness or faith, but structural clarity of thought, maturity, depth. Depth enough that I, who trusted no one in this matter, listened. It was her view, her stance that opened for me the possibility to start fulfilling my promise — from a new point, from a different level of perception.

It wasn’t simply a return to religion. It was the beginning of a true spiritual search.

The church she brought me to belonged to a different confession. Not the one I had grown up in, not the one toward which I had built up a steady skepticism over the years. And yet, next to her, I opened up. I began to immerse myself in religion again. Not as a child, not as an observer — but as a person coming with a question, seeking an answer.

From an early age, I had a tendency to reason. I often observed — words, intonations, behaviors. I wasn’t just interested in what a person said, but why they said it the way they did. These observations slowly formed within me a kind of evaluation system. Not judgment — no. More like a scale of understanding, of perception, of awareness.

Where I grew up, I was surrounded by deeply religious people. But, paradoxically, it was they who pushed me away from religion. I listened to how they interpreted the world, explained spiritual truths, how they looked at life through their personal “lenses” of perception. And the more carefully I listened, the more clearly I understood: if a person thinks so narrowly, then it is precisely at that level of awareness that they have chosen their spiritual position.

I began to perceive their faith as an extension of their limited consciousness. And if that was the case — religion itself, in my perception, lost its weight. I didn’t trust their conclusions, because I didn’t trust their thinking. And therefore, I couldn’t trust the spiritual position they had arrived at. Thus, step by step, I began rejecting not only the form, but the very essence of what they called "spirituality."

But this girl was different. At that time, it seemed to me that her reasoning was deep, precise, respectful. She didn’t speak in clichés. She wasn’t trying to convince — she was mentally searching, and you could feel it. Her words weren’t memorized truths, but living reflections, in which I recognized myself. I began to listen. Truly. Without defenses, without cynicism.

And I gave it another chance. Over the next year and a half, I opened my heart more and more. Carefully. Slowly. Sometimes with doubts. I attended seminars, got to know believers, tried to speak their language, read the books they recommended, looked at the world from their perspective, defended the same principles they did. Everyone treated me with warmth and kindness — I truly met many sincere, radiant people. I observed how they behaved, how they joked, how they fell silent. I copied their mannerisms. I studied where to place my hands when they prayed. I tried to be "one of them" — not to seem so, but to understand what they felt from within.

I was searching for a form into which my soul could fit.

But the deeper I went, the more clearly I began to feel a dissonance. I was unsettled by how people of the same faith treated each other. Not to mention different confessions — even individual churches sometimes acted like rival football clubs. They competed for congregants, condemned "outsiders," displayed hostility toward those who saw the world differently.

And the longer I stayed in that role, the stronger the feeling grew: my environment seemed to be limited in perception. They seemed to need a clear, restrictive interpretation of the world — simple, linear, without unnecessary complications. One in which happiness was achievable through strictly defined steps, where a spiritual foundation was already formed — without ambiguities, without murky questions, without internal contradictions. In their worldview, everything was clear, structured, and complete.

But that forever-narrowing stance didn’t satisfy me. It fulfilled neither my aspirations nor my thirst for truth. I felt like I was constantly holding myself back. Every time I tried to raise deeper questions that truly concerned me, I would hear something like: “We are not yet developed enough to understand God.”

It’s worth saying — the level of demands of my environment matched the level of knowledge their religious system offered. It truly filled them to 100%. It made them sincerely radiant, morally mature, kind people. And in that, it held real strength. But for me — it wasn’t enough.

I genuinely tried to fit in. To adapt. To find inner fulfillment within the boundaries I was offered. But at some point, I realized — I wasn’t just losing faith. I was losing myself. And I surrendered.

By then, I had already begun speaking English. I had figured out how the local tax system worked. I had registered a company. I was running a business while still working in construction. I thought that by walking away from religion, I was also walking away from the spiritual world. But back then, I didn’t yet realize that these were not necessarily the same thing.

I returned to what I had started back in my homeland — to e-commerce. After achieving results sufficient for a comfortable existence, I quit the job that, from the beginning, had been deeply alien to me. And at last, a direct path opened before me — toward what, at that moment, I believed to be my true nature.

After a series of ups and downs, I once again needed a job — to support the project I was trying to keep alive. By that time, I spoke English well enough to land a job without much difficulty at a major company — Amazon.

During this period, I completely stopped attending church. I severed all ties with those who had surrounded me during my spiritual search. And as strange as it may sound — it was a relief. No drama. Just silence. Space.

A couple of months after starting at Amazon, without much effort, I began taking leading positions within the company. Everything seemed to be aligning: a stable job at a respected corporation, recognition, growth opportunities. They invited me to climb further up the career ladder. At the same time, I was running my own business, which was also bringing in income. Formally — everything was in its place.

It was at that time that philosophy began to draw more and more of my attention. In it, I saw an alternative to religion — a kind of intellectual path for those who could not accept dogma but still craved a foundation, a base upon which to build a worldview, a system by which one could make personal, ethical, and even practical decisions. Thus began a new period of my life. Simple in form, yet rich in content: work, business, sports, philosophy. These became my pillars. I had no friends, no parties, not a drop of alcohol, no bad habits. I had never in my life taken anything that could alter my consciousness. Everything you are reading now was written in a state of complete sobriety. I mention this not for dramatic effect, but to make it clear: all the information and conclusions that follow were formed in full awareness.

And yet, even with all this, I carried an unstoppable thirst — a thirst for knowledge. Long ago, I had extinguished any interest in material things. Thanks to certain circumstances and false early values, I had quickly realized that possessions were not what nourished the soul. I had lost all taste for them. But my hunger for knowledge only grew stronger. Still, that thought — that promise I had made at the border — would return to me from time to time. Back then, I was certain I had fulfilled my duty. I had paid my respect to faith, made a serious effort. I believed it was enough. But the memory wouldn't let go. It returned softly, almost imperceptibly, yet persistently, like a quiet voice inside whispering, "You are not finished yet."

Amidst all my work and pursuits, I began to study other religions, this time strictly on my own, without intermediaries — no pastors, no priests, no gurus. I wanted to see directly. I immersed myself deeper and deeper: into one religion, then another, then a third. I filtered everything through myself — through reason, through intuition, through my own inner vibrational response. But the thirst did not fade. I read, researched, analyzed — and still, there was no inner peace.

I wasn’t interested in social contacts, relationships, or building a social circle — even though, by all appearances, it was the age when such things were expected. I wasn’t searching for that. Only one thing concerned me — knowledge. Truth. After exploring all the major religions, I began to realize that the differences between them weren’t as great as often portrayed within their own doctrines. At their core, they all preached moral and ethical norms and carried fundamentally similar ideas.

More and more, I found myself drawing parallels between different spiritual traditions. A surface-level but holistic picture began to form, woven from religious knowledge. And then, I went deeper. By then, I was fully ready. Nothing restrained me anymore: neither affiliation with any confession, nor the fear that by studying a “foreign” faith, I might betray the God of another.

And so, I truly dug deeper. That’s when something strange began to happen. Sources of information started appearing in my life, as if some invisible force was deliberately gathering pieces of a mosaic for me. It felt as if something unseen was helping me glimpse a deeper structure of the world — the level where the roots of all religions are born.

I kept digging. And at some point, a clear and cohesive puzzle began to form out of various esoteric teachings. A puzzle without contradictions — neither between religions nor between the spiritual and the physical worlds. Everything began to align. It was as if I had discovered a bridge — between the metaphors of religious traditions and the actual structure of reality, between symbols and universal laws.

I began to understand that sins, commandments, and punishments were not orders from an external God, punishing for disobedience. They were signals of a system built on energetic laws. Commandments were not demands; they were instructions, warnings: do not act this way, or you will suffer — not because God will punish you, but because the Universe itself is a closed system of cause and effect. Every action, every thought, every impulse creates an energetic reaction that inevitably returns to its source.

But all of this — we still have the whole book ahead to talk about...

I began to notice that, at last, my inner hunger started to subside. My body, responding to the accumulated energy, began unlocking new abilities — sensory perceptions, access to subtle bodies, spontaneous realizations that had once seemed impossible. My understanding of the world, pieced together from countless scattered fragments, was becoming clearer. And, remarkably — it did not contradict itself. Knowledge would come unexpectedly, precisely, and right on time. I couldn't explain how or why it came... but each new puzzle piece fit exactly where it belonged.

At some point, I realized: material goods, career, business — no longer interested me. I radically changed my way of life. Selling everything I owned, giving away what I could to those in need, I felt a profound satisfaction. That same feeling — as if I was fulfilling the promise once made — at the border between worlds. I kept only what was necessary for my continued growth.

With a background in designing business projects, I finally directed my energy toward what truly felt like my calling. I understood that I looked younger than what people might expect from someone speaking on such deep subjects, and at first, it embarrassed me. I limited myself, thinking I had no right to raise the topics I was beginning to touch upon. Until one day — I simply grew tired of staying silent.

Thus was born the image of Oracle Talosha. And with it — Talosha’s Awareness Center.

The image of the Oracle became not just a mask — but a voice, a vessel for transmitting the knowledge that came to me. He became the rector of the center, the one delivering lectures on topics I once didn’t even dare to speak aloud.

As the center grew, I created more and more: lectures, books, journals, marathons. With each new creation, people began to transform — losing excess weight, shedding destructive habits, changing their perspective on life. They became better versions of themselves. And with this new perspective, their health improved. Their relationships shifted — with family, with loved ones. The foundation of their perception shifted, and with it, the reality they lived in began to change.

At the core of all knowledge flowing through me lies acceptance. I do not judge. I do not divide people into “righteous” and “lost.” I respect every position — because I understand: every modern religion is simply a necessary surface, a limited interpretation of reality suited to those whose depth of spiritual inquiry resonates with that level of perception.

I worked day and night, in complete solitude, passing everything through my subjective filter — the one shaped by a unique life experience. And now, that filter forms the finished products available to everyone at Talosha’s Awareness Center.

At some point, while working on new materials, I began to feel an inner conflict growing inside me. A conflict between endless debates about spirituality and skepticism, between the drive toward truth and the never-ending noise of contradictions. I could see more and more clearly: the world holds countless positions, and each one — almost always — is limited by the perception of the one who holds it. Some cling solely to science. Others — to religious dogma. Still others build their worldview on personal experience. And most paradoxically — they often wage war against those who, in truth, share the same principles, just seen from a different angle.

One day, in the midst of working on a new book under the name Oracle Talosha, I simply shut down. Too much information had flowed through me — and my consciousness couldn’t keep up. I fell asleep, mid-sentence.

And it was then, between sleep and waking, that I had a vision. I saw it vividly — the cover of a book and its title: “Faith as Grandma’s Idiot.” Yes — the very cover you are holding in your hands right now.

In that moment, I felt something shift inside me. As if something higher nudged me to step out of the shadows, to stop hiding behind the image of the Oracle, and for the first time — to speak from my personal self. Without a mask. Without distortion.

That is how this book was born.

Within these pages, you will find not just reflections. You will encounter a unique interpretation of reality — one that has already helped many people satisfy their deep spiritual search, find new guiding stars, and heal aspects of their lives that once seemed impossible to fix.

If you are among those who have begun to glimpse beyond the veil of the Matrix, your path is calling. Gain access to the Foundation — free of charge — and take your first true step:

Access Now

It is the introduction of my book called "The Art of Awareness Engineering." You can keep reading by following the link below.

Keep Reading