Literati, it is best not to jump to conclusions when we blame ourselves for all the ills that beset the world. Just look what it got what may very well be our last entrant to our contest, You Didn’t Write That.
Here Timur Iablokov, who returns to us now that we are back on line, tries to bridge the misunderstandings, in a piece he calls
With the world at your hands
by Timur Iablokov
Engulfed in solitude, I sat at the top of the lonesome bridge, staring down at the thousands of lively figures, illuminated by bright lights. Their countless individual lives, holding so many secrets, so many problems and so many happy memories; all being so different, so unique. So many possibilities, so many emotions, all about to be ruined.
I continued to lie to myself, saying: “It’s not your fault, you didn’t write that”. But, saying it over and over just made it that more despicable. I did write it, it was my fault. Sighing deeply, the world just seemed that much darker, the sepulchral tentacles of disaster gliding through the air. Thunder suddenly crackled and moaned, but the people couldn’t care less. The rain fell, lethal and sharp, wet and icy. My vision turned to the left, where the dark water roared silently yet viciously, weeping in agony. As black as night, it churned in on itself, its lust unquenched, its anger eternal. I turned away from the joyful people, and let them have their final moments of peace, positioning myself to meet the abyss. With tears in my eyes, I begged for forgiveness one final time.
And then, I jumped.