The Puppet on My Strings

The Strings of a New Beginning

What was the most efficient way to avoid the oppressive feeling of boredom? That feeling that often rose from the unknown while it felt like it was eating you to the core? Some people would argue that the best way is to go for a walk outside and breathe some fresh air, while the disturbing thoughts were distracted by the multitude of events happening around. There are others who believed that spending some quality time in the company of another person would be more than enough to cure the horrible spell you cast on yourself. Eventually, there were also many minor suggestions that did not demand beyond simple actions such as turning on a three-minute song, opening a book of several pages or watching your mobile phones screen as your mind get the entertaining it needed.

So many offers and yet none of them were enough to satisfy Dostoevsky.

While he was a person who grew up and lived most of his life in complete solitude, while he voluntarily shut himself off from the outside world and the people who lived in it, Fyodor learned that he was able to keep himself busy in a multitude of ways. The same ways that for other people would sound very strange and maybe even discouraging in a certain way. But the Russian never really saw other people's thoughts about him as something he should spend his precious time on. Not to mention the very fact that he did not hang out with enough people for them to voice judgmental opinions towards him.

This was the reason why many times he found himself sitting in his dark apartment typing with extraordinary vigor on the keyboard that belonged to his old computer. For the rabbi he searched for hours for various sources of information and articles in order to promote his personal interests, sometimes he spent some time to keep up with what was happening around the world while he visited news sites of different countries as he knew they would not disappoint him. And in extreme cases, if he really had the time and wanted to, he also entered chats with certain people in order to keep up with them or to get exactly what he wanted to hear from them. It was also the reason why he started working on this unusual project in the first place. But for some reason, just the thought of this subject made his heart flutter in his thin chest from the excitement that flooded him. That was extremely unusual for the Russian who for years was sure that he would never feel this strange feeling again.

Since Dostoyevsky saw himself in the shadow of a man who was a firm believer, he always had a hard time seeing the grace that existed in magic and wizardry of all kinds, even if he could not deny the very fact that they did in fact exist. As much as he would not want to. But now for days he noticed that one thought, an idea, in fact, was bothering him. What about the magic of giving new life? After all, God in His own honor gave to all his creations the same ability that he possessed, so why cannot he, God's messenger, execute this potential?

And no, the same idea was not about impregnating a woman with his offspring whom Fyodor intended to raise and teach everything he knew so far. It also was not about planting a tree or a plant to watch it grow and show off the spectacular colors of their petals. Fyodor intended to create something new from nothing, from absolute zero, while controlling every proportion, every feature and every characteristic of his creation, just as God in his time created all beast separately until he reached the greatest creation of all, the human being.

The excitement and anticipation that both flooded Fyodor was also the cause of the eerie silence that filled the Russians messy apartment for the next few days, while the typical ticking noises which came from the noisy keyboard stopped at once and the computer found itself untouched for the duration. Instead, Fyodor fixed all his attention and energy on a crumpled, yellowed piece of paper that he found in one of the messy drawers in his possession, while his small hand held an old pencil whose lead point had long since lost its sharpness, without being able to let go of it, not even for a moment.