Chapter II: The Optics of the Soul

The gallery smelled of varnish and dust, a kind of hideout for creative things. Ivan Nikolayevich stood still in front of the Magritte painting, *The False Mirror*. He felt like his fingers had been unwittingly strumming some invisible instrument. The eye in the painting was huge and never blinked. The swirling blue iris seemed like the sky overhead filled with clouds and completely unsure about answering questions. Encapsulated in the glass was Ivan's whirling stream of consciousness; he couldn't help but wonder if this eye was a portal, or if just the opposite was true, another trap entangling him in another dubious reality. He cycled through the question- is it more advantageous to know a real sheeple world, or to wish it to be something else entirely? Did it really even matter? He could see his own tired, bloodshot eyes in the glass and questioned what person he was in relation to the artwork engulfed in both separate mirrors. There lay two Ivans, one searching for dream awareness and another person desperate to meet the day, the absolute vacant spirit.

"You spend quite a bit of time here, eh, brother?" came a gravelly voice. Father Pavel arrived in the other pew, a thin priest, who did not seem to have left the gallery for many years. He released an odor of incense mixed with the scent of age. "So, tell me, does God reside in that sky or the eye that sees it?” Ivan did not turn his head. "God is found in the questions we ask—never in the answers we may find." The priest chortled. "Careful with that heavy thinking. Staring into your own soul too much will drown you in your own thinking."

However, Ivan wanted to believe that the act of looking outward may only lead you to chase illusions. He had experienced both. For nights on end, he immersed himself in the writings of Kant and Schopenhauer, and then he would spend his days walking along the banks of the Neva and staring up into the sun as if it might bring him some epiphany. But the world was still a riddle, and the truth remained buried beneath snow and dark.

He encountered Lyubov the widow of the painter in the dimly lit backroom of a bar that evening. Her face displayed both deep wrinkles and strong determination. She placed a sketch in front of him which depicted a peaceful Buddha with his eyes half-shut while a lotus flower surrounded him. She spoke with the force of a sharp knife wrapped in silk as she declared "This comes from the East." “They get it. The path to truth requires you to stop your endless pursuit of it.

Ivan traced his finger across the border of the paper. The concept of truth might be nothing more than a pleasant deception we create for ourselves.

She moved closer with her vodka-laced breath. A beautiful lie should replace any untruth. She pointed at the gold spiral on the Buddha's forehead to show him. The soul reveals its mysteries through this mark.

He left with the sketch hidden inside his coat pocket. The gentle raindrops illuminated the cobblestones which reflected the wet night like fish scales. A church bell rang in the distance producing a deep sound that felt like a weighty reminder of guilt.

He arrived at the Winter Palace during dawn to gaze at Caravaggio's masterpiece *The Calling of St. Matthew*. The tax collector's face glowed under God's dramatic finger light as his expression matched his internal bewilderment. Why him? Why any of us? A divine illumination penetrated the darkened space with surgical precision to examine the core of global darkness. He placed his hand on the painting to experience the warmth of the divine illumination that existed in that artwork.

A guard seized his shoulder while shouting orders. Ivan lost his balance when his foot slipped on the rug's edge. Everything seemed to shift at that instant as his eyes moved between the Buddha's spiral pattern and Magritte's empty sky and Caravaggio's tormented saints. A broken laugh escaped his throat as he laughed. These figures resemble blind men who attempt to understand an elephant.

The guard's shouts became distant echoes as he dropped to his knees while underwater. Lyubov's sketch dropped from his coat pocket as he glanced away revealing its third eye which stared at him without blinking. A beautiful lie, he thought. The words emerged softly: But what else is left?

The light dimmed. The eyes closed.