Child

.

If, for as long as you can remember, there's been a hill visible outside your window, will you one day wonder, "Why is this hill here?"?

I, on the other hand, can't remember a day when I didn't wake up and see a child. Forever, in the corner of my room, behind the cupboard, a wild child has crouched. Ugly and unkempt, with untrimmed and greasy hair, skeletally thin and pale, grimy, with long, fungal nails. Always curled up in the same way—almost in a fetal position. Sometimes I'll look at it for a while, but never for too long, because it's neither a pleasant nor interesting sight.

But it never bothered me, it never stank, it didn't want to eat, so I ignored it. I accepted its existence, or rather, I didn't see the point in accepting it. Another piece of junk, tucked away somewhere, just out of sight. Just a child.

I wander through various rooms. I'm a respected and widely read writer. I make numerous observations on these occasions, so that I can later draw themes for subsequent works. I'm among the crows, but I don't even think of cawing like them. I often feed on rooms; I suck in what others are sucked in by.

My point, anyway, is that I sometimes "visit," but when I "visit," it's always in a revealing way.

I happened to be at Moligsztajn's banquet once. It was good fun, but there were better ones. Fortunately, I met a few of my companions there, so we could at least sit in one clique and discuss what a good time it was, but there were better ones.

However, there was something I really missed at Moligsztajn's. There was something among those walls that prevented me from melting away and resting my tired limbs in the fresh air. There was none of that fleeting falsity I could always count on, for example, in Groszek's work, and in a few other places.

With Moligsztajn, I felt as if some constant intrusion were pulling the chair out from under me, so that instead of sinking into the slightly stale, yet sometimes pleasant, sauce of oblivion, I was constantly infused with a teasing truthfulness. But not the truthfulness I'd always cherished and longed for my entire life. Rather, it was truthfulness through its crudeness, truthfulness through a hunger for inscrutable and shapeless nuances.

Another frustrating fact was the lack of any perception of anything. Everything had already been there, everything I already knew, everything was vanity, everything was derivative. I walked around the apartment, room by room, somewhat desperately searching for something to entertain my bored perception with. It was a foolish thing, indeed. After all, I tried to look for strange things and aberrations like one looks for glasses or a TV remote control, but that is not the way – that is not where the essence lies.

That evening had upset me, because what does it mean—that I "was there" for the sake of "was there," and not for art, not for the modest development of some ancient thought? I decided to get myself together as quickly as possible, and when I mentioned this intention to my companions, they expressed the same desire.

Less than five minutes later, we were walking down the street, happy to have left those disgusting thresholds.

Later, when I sat in my apartment, I tried, even before bed, to force myself to think of something, to desperately recall some disharmony in Moligsztajn's work, to uncover the deception, to uncover the distortion. Nihil as hell.

I went to bed nervous.

Morning epiphanies—you know them? You have to know them! It's when you tear your hair out all evening, racking your brains over something, and the solution keeps you in that disgusting stupor until dawn. And then it comes lightly and freshly, enlightening us that we feel naked and childlike before ourselves.

Such a revelation happened to me that very morning. I woke up and simply knew – a child. A child! There wasn't a child sitting anywhere at Moligsztajn's – I know, because I've explored every room too thoroughly – but at mine, there's one sitting constantly.

Ha! I already knew what I'd have to grapple with that day. I started right away.

I called Gomber.

"Gomber, is there a child sitting in your room?

" "He is." I hung up.

I called Groszek. The child is sitting.

I also called Gorzała, Burns, and Filip G. There's a child at each one. Every – de – go – dzie – ciak!

I started a new round of calls. Gomber again.

"Gomber, who's the child?"

"Listen, from my perspective, this kid is more like... hmm, kid..."

"Oh, well, yeah... But... what does it mean

?" "Does a kid mean something?

" "Well, it probably does, since some people have it and others don't."

"Hmm, well, since it means...

" "So you don't know?"

"No, but... I guess it doesn't mean anything. " "

What do you mean , it doesn't mean anything

?" "Because... It's always been mine, what could it mean?

" "Exactly! The point is, since it's always been mine, we've forgotten it can mean something too!"

"Hmm... because I know...

" "But I know! And you know what else?" I'll ask! I'll ask him who that one is!

" "Oh, no, no—don't ask!" Gomber perked up. I swear he jumped up there on the other end of the cable.

I went with the same line to the end. Everyone advised me, "Don't ask." I couldn't understand it, and they couldn't explain it to me. What could possibly happen?

-It's not so much that it can happen, but why disturb the order... Hmm, I know... he's sitting there, so why bother... - said Filip G.

I spent the entire day wrestling with my thoughts, strolling around the city. And I probably would have gone to bed in this state, only to wake up in the morning with another brilliant idea, then submit it for verification and – thus – throw it in the trash. However, I did go to the pub, the Broken Horn, as I usually did.

And there it was – excellent draft beer, the smell of wax, a slight suffocation, barbaric laughter, then a few broken notes from the jukebox, now mirth, now sadness, now advice, now advice I wouldn't want to hear, and corrections to those same things, words to the wind, words about the power of the wind. And in between, I

sat down with the old storyteller. He was an impossible pain at times, and – truth be told – I was the only one who sometimes wanted to listen to him. I told him about the matter, he pondered, then asked very matter-of-factly,

"So who, you say, advised you not to ask?"

"Well... Gomber, Bean, Burns...

" "Burns?" the old man exclaimed.

"Yes, Bu...

" "Burns, that..." (Here he swore vehemently, though not very loudly) "Go and ask! Go right now, if you value your life!

" "Thanks!" I patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks a lot."

I was burned out of the pub. I ran all the way home. It was a profoundly absurd impulse. The opinion of an old grumpy man opposed to the opinions of my most distinguished friends. It was a desperate impulse, a far-fetched argument. It was pure stupidity. And my only point of reference, and that was enough to tip the scales.

I burst into the apartment, and immediately into my room. I jumped up to the child and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. I clenched my hands firmly, but probably not painfully. It was the first time I'd looked at him up close.

"Who are you?" I shouted directly into his face. At that same moment, I noticed. It wasn't curled up just for the pleasure of curling up. It was biting into its own forearm, and it was completely blackened by infection. The wound was full of pus, and around it was a mass of black, clotted blood. Only a thin stream of fresh blood seeped out, and when I screamed, the stream seemed to grow stronger.

"Who are you?" I repeated, this time more quietly, not hiding the terror in my voice. It raised its head then, but only slightly, as if guarding the wound and intending to rush back. That was also when I saw its eyes for the first time. And I realized it was blind.

"Who are you?" I asked again, every weakness in me evident in my tone. And then, once and for all, this apparition, the embodiment of disability and plague, the turpistic apparition, shocking with ugliness, spoke, only to gnaw at its own flesh:

- I am the muse.