End of the World

It was snowing. Dawn was breaking. That meant he'd spent the entire night writing. Alone.

In fact, there's no other way to write than alone, in peace. Knowing that no one would disturb you, wouldn't destroy the atmosphere of eeriness. That extraordinary feeling, the shivers that ran through your entire body with every new idea.

That was one of the reasons he wrote in solitude. At least, that's how he explained it to himself. Reality, however, was somewhat different. They say the truth stings the eyes. It was a fact. His eyes were full of tiny wounds. Just like his heart. A disgusting organ filled with blood mixed with hatred and regret. To everything. To the surrounding nature that had once delighted his eyes, to friends who were no longer able to help him. Even to himself and the words he had birthed in immense pain.

He hadn't known what he wanted to write about when he began. He simply mindlessly poured his thoughts onto the screen. Inspiration still hadn't come. It hadn't for days. Since that fateful Friday, when the executioner in white, resembling a butcher, pronounced his sentence.

Have you ever wondered what the end of the world would look like? Probably. Perhaps you imagined it as a nuclear holocaust? Or perhaps as the Bible describes it? Perhaps something else. But you probably haven't thought of the kind of end of the world he's been thinking about for a long time, knowing that this vision is the most real. At least for him...

What would you do if someone told you they could reveal one of the two most important dates in your life? The date written in encyclopedias, school textbooks, and finally on tombstones, next to your date of birth. Four digits – the year. The date of your death. Would you be ready for such knowledge? Would it be useful to you? Would you change anything in your life? Probably yes. Would you live it to the fullest, knowing you'd die in forty or fifty years? Absolutely. And what would your last two months be like? Would you spend them happily, knowing that after they're over, the slender thread of your lives will be severed? I doubt it. You wouldn't be capable of it.

What if you weren't fifty, forty, or even ten years old? What if only two months remained until the tragic end? Worse, if you were still young? What if you hadn't yet had time to enjoy life, telling yourself, "First, study, then work, and when I finally settle down, sometime before I'm thirty, I'll have my own house, a car, maybe someone to love, then I can start having fun"? Neither of you would want to find yourself in that situation.

And that was exactly what his future looked like. Two months and it was over. Death! Sixty-one days. Sixty-one nights. Lonely nights. Who would want to hug, or even talk honestly, to someone with AIDS? You all feel sorry for such people… until. Until one of them settles down next to you. Until they invade your lives with their terrible, terminal disease, which, of course, cannot be transmitted through conversation, touch, or even a kiss. You are terrible! Fucking hypocrites, thinking only of how to please themselves. Even at the expense of others.

What? He had friends? Yes, he did, but they were just like you. They were only satisfying their need for friendship, acceptance, maybe even love for another person. What do you think they did when they found out he had AIDS? I don't have to say it, you already know. You would have done the same. Don't deny it. Subconsciously, you think: "Dirty, let him die. He was on drugs or had gay sex, let him suffer now. It's his fault."

Would I change your mind if I told you he'd never taken drugs, or that he's one of those "proper lovers," and that he contracted the virus a year ago from the blood used to save his life after an accident? I don't think so. In fact, I'm even certain of it. It wouldn't change your way of thinking. "Dirty..."

Do you know what empathy is? It's the ability to empathize with someone else, to feel their emotions with your own heart. Try to put yourself in their shoes now. Do you see what the world looks like now? Do you know what the end of the world means? Yes. Now you know. For him, the end of the world means a quiet departure in two months. Without fanfare, bombs, or a shaking earth. An end none of you would want. Without friends, the warm hands of a loved one. Like a hunted animal.

That's why he sat in an empty room and wrote, wanting to leave behind at least some words. Words that didn't belong to a sick person, words that someone would read and think were written by a drug addict or a gay man. Shouldn't I call him that? And how do you describe him? Honestly, admit to yourselves what your first associations with the word AIDS were.

That's why he wrote about pleasant things. About something that multitudes of self-satisfied people would later call just another "cheerful story."

He wrote about something he had never experienced, even at twenty-two. About love. A beautiful feeling that makes us see the world in all the colors of the rainbow. Thanks to it, all problems disappear. He described a beautiful Alpine meadow by a lake and two lovers lying next to each other, making plans for the future. A future longer than two months. A wonderful dream. Each of you would like to find yourself in it, wouldn't you? He too. But you have time. You can still fulfill it.

"And he can't do it anymore" – that's what you thought, right? True. You know all too well that he won't find anyone among you who could help him fulfill it. Or maybe I'm wrong? Yes? You? Or maybe you? No? None of you will, I know.

Is twenty-two years a long time? Let each of you answer this question for yourself. Is it enough time to enjoy life? I think you'll agree – no. And can you shape yourself during that time into a person sensitive to human suffering, not thinking only about how to satisfy your own needs? I'll surprise you – it is possible. It is possible, but it requires effort and willingness. Unfortunately…

Twenty-two years… that was the age of the only being, amidst the gray mass, willing to help him. A woman. Shy and a bit lost. Like a diamond among a mass of stones – hard rocks, trying to resemble each other. Someone he would never have noticed before he transformed from someone like you into what he is now. A classmate. She was the first to reach out for help. She was the only one.

Have you ever helped someone in depression? Unable to use arguments like "it will get better"? She did. Only thanks to her strength of spirit did he desire to live again. It was she who pulled him out of his state of numbness, suspended between life and death. She helped him raise money for a trip to the Alps, to a beautiful, green meadow by a lake. It was she who would have lain down beside him and made plans for the future.

She didn't make it. He didn't last two months. He didn't realize his dream. He died in the hospital, but with a smile on his face. He passed away happy. Silently, without fanfare. Only accompanied by her tears dripping onto the white hospital sheets. The snow was falling again.