Here’s the latest essay I published in my ongoing project Power of Meanings // Meanings of Power. 

This piece explores the paradox of free will — a question that may seem abstract, but that shapes how we treat one another, how we design our institutions, and how societies handle conflict. We rarely ask ourselves outright whether free will exists, yet most of us live as if the answer were obvious. That assumption has consequences: it colors how we judge others, how we judge ourselves, and even how we divide into polarized camps.

In the essay, I trace how Western philosophy has wrestled with this paradox for centuries, and how Buddhism approaches it from a different angle. By questioning the very notion of a fixed self, Buddhism dissolves the dilemma and shifts the focus from abstract debates to the practical question of conditions and responses. The result is not only a resolution to a philosophical puzzle, but also a more compassionate and realistic way of thinking about daily life, justice, and politics.
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You can read the essay here.

Here’s the latest essay I published in my ongoing project Power of Meanings // Meanings of Power. This piece grew out of reflections after a summer trip through Europe, when I returned home and felt an unexpected emotional withdrawal. That experience made me look more closely at how the mind works with meanings—how we attach them, get carried by them, and sometimes manage to step back from them.

The essay weaves together several layers: a personal account of travel and its aftermath, an “essay within an essay” called Just a Place (written on the road, while the insight was still fresh), and a broader exploration of what I call the nonlinear path of unlearning. Drawing on psychology, neuroscience, and Buddhism, I describe how growth often feels less like a straight line and more like a rhythm—stretching forward, snapping back, and expanding again in cycles.

Toward the end, I experimented with something different: transforming the imagery of the mind as a rubber band or even as a universe into a poetic form, created collaboratively with ChatGPT. Normally, my poems are entirely my own, but here the collaborative process felt like part of the exploration itself, so I included it as the closing section.

And here’s an excerpt:

We chase things because we think they’re special. We want to go to London or Paris or New York, or get a particular job, or fall in love, or buy a home—not just because of what they are, but because of what they mean. And those meanings live in our heads.

London is not just a city—it’s a symbol. So is “falling in love,” or “being successful,” or “finding your calling.” The things themselves are just… things. Cities are made of buildings and roads and public parks. Jobs are made of tasks and emails. Even relationships are made of conversations and compromises and moments that are sometimes magical, and sometimes just laundry.

That’s not a bad thing. Meanings give color to life. But they can also create pressure. When we expect something to be special, we worry about doing it right. I’ve caught myself in that loop many times: Am I enjoying this park or this walk in London the way I’m supposed to? Should I be doing something more exciting, more impressive?

And then, the moment comes when the reality doesn’t quite match the meaning we imagined. And we feel a little let down, though we might not know why.

Sometimes we don’t even notice it consciously—we just move on to the next goal or experience. But if we look closely, we might see the pattern. We build up an idea in our heads, we get there, and then we realize: Oh. It’s just a park. Just a job. Just a person. Just a moment.

But “just” doesn’t mean bad. It means real. And real is beautiful.

You can find the whole essay here.

I’ve just published a new page in my ongoing project Power of Meanings // Meanings of Power. In this project, I explore power not as a fixed possession or a simple binary, but as a complex and paradoxical phenomenon that runs through all of our lives. Much of my work looks at how meanings—those invisible frameworks we use to make sense of the world—are the basis of our power and powerlessness.

The latest essay, The Coat That May Have Belonged to Vysotsky, tells a personal story about an ordinary object that carried extraordinary associations. It reflects on how meanings arise, how they govern our choices, and how noticing them might open space for a different kind of freedom.
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Here’s how the essay starts:

For a non-Russian reader, the name Vladimir Vysotsky may not mean much. But for anyone who grew up in the Soviet Union, his name carries a lot of meaning. Vysotsky (1938—1980) was an icon—a singer and songwriter whose performances were raw, emotional, political, and deeply personal. His lyrics spoke about injustice, addiction, love, and the struggles of everyday life. He was not just a performer. He was a voice that expressed what many people felt but didn’t say out loud, in a time when direct speech could be dangerous.
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And once, my family owned his coat. Maybe.

​Keep reading here!

I published an essay on Medium comparing two songs that have become cultural touchpoints for queer identity—Lady Gaga’s "Born This Way" and Chappell Roan’s "Good Luck, Babe!"

The essay explores how both songs reflect and shape ideas about authenticity, identity, and emotional truth. While "Born This Way" was once seen as radically affirming, it’s now the subject of critical reappraisal. Meanwhile, "Good Luck, Babe!" has been widely praised—but is it also open to critique?

I approach both songs with curiosity and compassion, drawing on perspectives from psychology, Buddhism, and gender studies.

Here is an excerpt from the essay:

...All three frameworks suggest that identity is like a river: it is constantly flowing and changing; and it can be hard to fully grasp in a few simple words. Which is why I’ve come to see “Born This Way” not as wrong, but as partial. It’s not the end of the conversation; it’s one chapter in it.

The critique of “Born This Way” made me reflect on what it means to move from being born a certain way to becoming who you are. These two ideas don’t have to contradict each other. A person might indeed have deep, early-rooted feelings of identity — and still experience change, transformation, or expansion. Framing identity as becoming makes room for both stability and fluidity.

That thought became a transition point for me. It helped me better appreciate the emotional truth of “Born This Way” while also feeling ready to consider other songs that address identity and denial from a different angle. That’s when I turned to “Good Luck, Babe!”...

Keep reading here!

I’ve just published a new page in my hypertext project Me, Looking for Meaning. It’s called “What Is Human Thinking?” and it explores what our thoughts really are—and how much (or how little) control we actually have over them.

We often treat thinking as a sign of intelligence, as if it’s always good to “think things through.” But thinking isn’t always rational, linear, or fully ours. Thoughts can be nonlinear, associative, deeply shaped by culture, and often invisible to us in the way they form. In this essay, I reflect on where thoughts come from, how they’re influenced by past experiences and society, and how they differ from animal cognition. I also briefly touch on the modular model of the mind and the variety of thinking styles (topics to be explored in future essays).

If you’ve ever wondered why your brain suddenly jumps from one idea to another—or why some thoughts seem to arrive uninvited—this essay is for you.

Read the new essay here

As always, thank you for following along.

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In the essay that I shared in my previous post, I explored some big questions: What is reality? What is truth? And why do we so often clash about both?

Among other things, I briefly mentioned two metaphors that help illuminate our differences: the tale of the blind men and the elephant, and the story of Rashomon.

I have now written a follow-up essay that zooms in on those two stories. This essay will be included in my Newsletter #15.

If the previous essay was a wide-angle view—about truth, perception, and the paradoxes we live in—this new one focuses more narrowly on metaphor. It compares the hopeful image of the blind men trying to understand the elephant with the unsettling ambiguity of Rashomon. Together, these metaphors offer two different models of how humans experience and navigate reality.
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Here's an excerpt from the latest essay:

You’ve probably heard it. Several (in some versions, three) blind men come across an elephant for the first time. One touches its side and says, “It’s like a wall.” Another feels the trunk: “No, it’s like a snake.” A third grabs a leg and insists it’s like a tree trunk. They all argue, each sure they’re right. And in a way, they are right. But also… not really. Each of them has grasped a part of the whole, but because they won’t listen to each other, none of them understands the full picture.

It’s a popular metaphor for truth—and one that makes us feel hopeful. If we could just learn to listen to each other’s perspectives, then maybe we could combine them and arrive at a deeper understanding. It’s a bit like solving a jigsaw puzzle. Everyone has a piece, and if we put them together, we’ll finally see the elephant.

That’s how I used to think about it. I still find the metaphor useful. It encourages humility. It reminds us that each person sees the world from a different angle, shaped by culture, experience, emotion, and language. And it offers a model for how dialogue might help us make sense of reality.

But over time, I began to feel that something about this story didn’t quite fit. I started wondering: what if we’re not all touching the same elephant? What if we’re not even in the same room?..

Want to know more? Keep reading here!

I’ve just published a new page in my hypertext project Me, Looking for Meaning.

This one is called Reality: A Paradox We Live In, and it explores why we so often clash over what’s true—and what that reveals about how we perceive reality.

Here is a short excerpt:

We argue about reality all the time—though rarely do we use that word. We debate what’s right and what’s wrong, what really happened, who’s to blame, and what’s true. These arguments often rest on hidden assumptions: that there is a reality “out there,” that humans can comprehend it, and that some of us have access to it while others don’t. But what if these assumptions are flawed? What if reality is, as Jung suggests, a paradox—something inherently incomprehensible to the human brain?

This doesn’t mean that we must give up on truth or live in nihilism. It means that truth and reality deserve more nuanced thinking—especially if we want to understand ourselves, others, and the world more deeply...

You can continue reading here.

Image credit: Igor ​Omilaev 

I recently published a new essay on Medium titled AI and I: Creativity.
In it, I reflect on my evolving relationship with AI tools in my writing and research practice. The piece is personal and exploratory—an attempt to be transparent about how I use AI, and why I find it meaningful.
Some of the key points I explore:

• How I use AI to support—not replace—my creative and scholarly process
  
• Why authorship, for me, is more about inquiry than about crafting every sentence by hand
  
• The possibilities (and limits) of AI as a tool for organizing complexity
  
• What it means to be a writer or scholar in a shifting digital landscape
  

If you're curious, you can read the full piece here.
I’d love to hear your thoughts—whether your process looks similar or very different.

This is one of my older Russian poems, featured in a video where I read the original aloud, with English subtitles providing the translation.

The poem captures a quiet sense of longing and emotional distance between two people who walk the same streets but remain out of step. Using urban imagery and gentle personification, it reflects on the feeling of being unnoticed and the tender wish to be seen and cared for.

Text in English (translation):
You walk along these streets.
The walls of buildings recognize you.
You do not feel the gazes of their windows,
Yet they wait for you every day.
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Through the blinding whiteness—blindly,
Through the coffee-like slush—when it's above freezing,
Under an umbrella—stepping on broken pieces of the sky,
I hurry, I hurry, I hurry.
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I greet every little window,
But they are talking about you...
It stings a bit, and it makes me sad:
I wish someone looked after me like that!
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The walls of buildings, silent and stern,
Pretend that they are not sad.
You walk along these streets.
And so do I. But always out of step.
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Text in Russian (original):
Ты проходишь по этим дорогам.
Стены зданий тебя узнают.
Ты не чувствуешь взглядов их окон,
А они каждый день тебя ждут.
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По слепящему, белому—слепо,
По кофейному месиву—в плюс,
Под зонтом—по осколочкам неба
Тороплюсь, тороплюсь, тороплюсь.
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Я здороваюсь с каждым окошком,
А они говорят о тебе…
И обидно, и грустно немножко:
Мне бы кто-нибудь в след так глядел!
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Стены зданий в молчании строгом
Притворяются, что не грустят.
Ты проходишь по этим дорогам.
И я тоже. Но все невпопад.