The excerpt is a first‑person monologue that alternates between a bleak, routine‑filled waking life and a vivid dream set in a nature preserve. In the waking world the narrator is trapped in a cycle of anger, depression, and meaningless work, illustrated by a noisy neighbor’s dog, a habit‑driven cigarette, and a sense of being a prisoner of circumstance. The dream introduces an austere overseer who challenges the narrator’s assumptions, repeatedly emphasizing that every person possesses the freedom to choose any destiny. The overseer presents a riddle about acquiring this freedom, hinting at a method called “Transurfing.” Upon waking, the narrator recalls only the word “Transurfing” and a conviction that reality does not need to be built by personal struggle; instead, one can simply choose the world one wishes to inhabit. The narrative uses stark contrasts—dreary reality versus luminous dream, forced habit versus conscious choice—to convey the core premise of Transurfing: reality is a selectable space, not a fixed construct, and the individual’s primary power lies in the conscious act of choosing.
Chapters
Reality Transurfing, Volume 1: The Space of Variations. Chapter 1: The Model of Variations. The rustling of the morning stars. The barking of my neighbor's dog wakes me up. That vile creature is always waking me up. God, I hate that dog. Why do I have to wake up from the noises that ugly thing is making? I need to go for a walk, calm myself down, and try to suppress the desire to burn down my neighbor's house. There are always bastards breaking into my life and trying to get to me. I'm getting depressed, upset, and angry. It's wet and foggy outside. I am walking along a slippery trail in the gloomy forest. Most of the leaves have fallen, exposing the gray trunks of half-dead trees. Why do I live in the middle of this depressing swamp? I take out a cigarette. I don't really want to smoke, but an old habit forces me. Forcing me? Since when has a cigarette become a necessity for me? Yes, it's disgusting to smoke on an empty stomach in the morning. It used to be that when I was at a party or with friends, I liked smoking and got pleasure from it. Smoking was a symbol of fashion and freedom. But parties end, gray and rainy everyday life takes over with puddles full of messy problems. And each time I smoke away my problems by lighting up, telling myself, "Okay, I'll just have a little smoke, catch my breath, and plunge back into this hateful routine." Smoke from the cigarette gets in my eyes and I cover them with my hands like a hurt child. I am so sick and tired of all of this. And then, as if echoing my thoughts, the branch of a birch tree, bent in an insidious way, hits me painfully in the face. Damn it! In a rage, I break the branch and throw it away. It hangs on the tree and then starts bobbing up and down, back and forth, like the head of a jack-in-the-box, as if mocking my inability to change anything in this world. Depressed, I drag myself further along the path. Every time I try to fight this world, it gives in, creating hope, only to flick me on the nose even harder later. It's only in the movies that you see heroes going towards their goal, destroying all obstacles in their way. That doesn't happen in real life. Perhaps life is similar to roulette. Maybe you win one time, a second, or even a third. Already you see yourself as the winner, and it seems the world is in your pocket. But in the end, you always lose. You're nothing but a Christmas goose being fattened up so you can be roasted and eaten to the sound of music and laughter. But it's a mistake, because this is not your party. You've made a mistake. Wallowing in these unhappy thoughts, I walk out to the sea. Little waves are biting at the sandy shore. The unfriendly sea blows a cold, wet wind on me. Fat seagulls are lazily waddling along the shore, pecking at something rotten. Their eyes have a cold and black emptiness to them, as though the world surrounding me is reflected in those eyes. A world that is just as cold and hostile. A bum is collecting empty bottles on the beach. Just get the hell out of here, you slob! I want to be alone. Now looks like he's heading my way. He's probably going to beg. I'd better head home. Not a moment of peace. God, I'm so tired. I'm always feeling tired, even when I'm resting. It's almost as if I'm doing time in prison. It seems that very soon everything will change. A new era will begin. And I'll become a different person, able to enjoy my life. But that is all in the future. For now, I'm stuck in the same miserable sweatshop. I'm always waiting, but the future never comes. I eat a tasteless breakfast and drag myself off to a boring job where I once again will have to squeeze out some sort of result that is needed by someone other than me. Another day of burdensome and purposeless life. Then I wake up from the rustling of the morning stars. What was that depressing dream that felt like a fragment of my previous life returning to me? Thankfully, it was only a dream. Relieved, I stretch myself the way a cat does. There he is, that lazy bone, sprawled out on the bed. You can tell by the way his ears are pointing that he is aware of my presence. Get your whiskered muzzle up and let's go for a walk. I've ordered a sunny day today, so I'm off to the sea. The path leads through a forest and the rustling of the morning stars gradually fades away into a multi-voiced choir of the bird community. Over there in the bushes, someone is making an extra effort trying to sing, "Food! Food!" Ah, there he is, the little good-for-nothing. How can a fluffy little bundle like you be chirping away so loudly? Incredible, it never occurred to me before that each bird has its unique voice, and yet not one false note is sung, and the many voices produce a wonderful melodious symphony, something a skilled orchestra can never match. The sun stretches its rays amidst the trees. This magical illumination brings the beauty of the forest to life, transforming the woods into a hologram. The path leads me gently to the sea. Emerald waves are quietly whispering, talking with the warm wind. The empty shore seems endless, but I feel calm and content, as though this overpopulated world has created a secluded space just for me. Some people think our surroundings are just an illusion that we ourselves create. But I'm not arrogant enough to think that all this beauty is simply the product of my imagination. Still under the influence of my oppressive dream, I start to remember my former life, which in fact was just as gloomy and hopeless as the dream. Very often I've tried, as I'm sure you have, to demand from this world what I felt it owed me. In return, the world turns its back on me indifferently. Experienced people tell me that the world doesn't give in that easily, that you have to fight it to conquer it. So, I try doing that, but to no avail. I just wind up wearing myself out. But those supposedly experienced people have an answer for that too: that I'm a bad person, that I have to change myself, and only then can I demand something from the world. So I try to fight myself, but it turns out to be even harder. A few nights later, I have another dream. I find myself in a kind of nature preserve. Unspeakable beauty surrounds me, and I am walking, admiring the splendor. Suddenly, a stern old man with a gray beard appears. He seems to be the overseer of the reserve, and he starts to observe me. I move towards him, and as I open my mouth to speak, he silences me. His voice is cold when he tells me that he doesn't want to hear he doesn't want to hear anything, that he's tired of cranky and greedy visitors who are never satisfied, always demanding something, making noise, and leaving piles of garbage behind. I nod silently in agreement and move on. The magnificent nature of the preserve astounds me. Why haven't I been here before? Entranced, I wander around with no particular aim, staring in awe. No words can describe how incredibly wonderful the nature around me is. I feel exalted, without a single thought in my mind. Soon the overseer appears again. The austere look on his face has eased. With a gesture, he asks me to follow him. We climb to the top of a green hill where a spectacular view of a picturesque valley opens in front of us. Down in the valley, I see a village of some kind. Little toy houses overflowing with plants and flowers. It is a scene from a fairy tale. I could study the scenery in amazement for a long time if only it did not seem so unreal. I start to suspect that such things can only be experienced in dreams. I look questioningly at the overseer, but he just smiles through his beard as if to say, You haven't seen anything yet. As we walk down to the valley, I realize that I can't remember how I got to the reserve in the first place. I want some kind of explanation from the old man. I make a silly remark about how lucky people are who can afford to live amidst this beauty. The overseer seems irritated and replies, "Who stops you from being one of those people?" I reply that not everyone is born rich and you can't control your destiny. The overseer ignores my words and says, "That's exactly the point. Every man is free to choose any destiny he likes. The only freedom we have is the freedom to choose. Anybody can choose whatever he wants." His ideas are beyond my comprehension and philosophy of life, so I want to argue with him. But the overseer doesn't want to hear any of it and says, "You fool! You have the right to choose, but you don't use that right. You simply don't understand what this means—to choose. This is all insane, I think. What does he mean that I can choose anything I want? As if everything in this world is allowed? Then I suddenly understand that it is just a dream. I am puzzled because I have never had the previous experience of waking up in a dream. I don't know how to act in such a strange situation. Once I realize I am dreaming, I hint to the old man that in a dream, as in waking life, he can say all the nonsense he wants, and that is all there is to his freedom. But my comment doesn't bother him. He just laughs at me. Realizing the absurdity of the situation—why even bother starting a discussion with a character in my own dream?— I start thinking that it might be better to wake up. The old man seems to read my mind. "Well enough," he says. "We don't have a lot of time. I never thought they'd send me an idiot like you. Nonetheless, I have to complete my mission." I start asking him what this mission was and who "they" are. He ignores my questions and gives me a riddle, which seems silly at the time. He says, Everyone can acquire the freedom to choose anything they want. So how do you get this freedom? Then he adds, if you solve this riddle, apples will fall into the sky. I start to lose my patience and tell the old man I have no intention of guessing any riddles. Only in dreams and fairy tales can you see all kinds of wonders. And in reality apples fall to the ground, not into the sky. He replies, "Enough, let's go. I have to show you something." When I wake up, I realize that I cannot remember what happened next in my dream, but I have the strong feeling that the overseer somehow put information in my head, information I cannot express in words. Only one strange word remains in my memory: Transurfing. And the only thoughts in my head are that there is absolutely no need to furnish my world by myself, that everything was created a long time ago without my participation but for my well-being, that it's not worth struggling with the world because that's the least effective method, and that no one is keeping me from simply choosing the world I want to live in. At first, these ideas seem absurd, and I probably would have forgotten all about the dream, but to my amazement, I soon discover that I can remember specific details about what the overseer meant by the expression to "choose" my own world and how I can go about doing that. The solution to the overseer's riddle comes to me on its own, out of nowhere. Every day I discover something new, and each time I am surprised and a little afraid. I can't explain rationally where all this knowledge comes from. I can only say one thing for sure: that there is no way it could have come from me. Ever since I discovered Transurfing, or rather ever since I was allowed to discover it, my life has been filled with joyful new meaning. Anyone who has ever done any creative work knows how much joy and satisfaction comes from something made with your own hands. But this is nothing compared to the process of creating your own destiny. Although the expression "creating" your destiny is not quite right because Transurfing is a method, not of creating, but of literally choosing your destiny, much like choosing an item at the supermarket.
